Tender Death Read online

  “Brooklyn College.”

  “Major, business administration?” Of course.

  “And economics.”

  The waitress placed their breakfast orders on the table unobtrusively and left.

  “How long have you been with Rosenkind, then?”

  “About a year. I worked ... you know ... as a cold caller at Lehman ... you know ... six months before that....” Tormenkov smeared thick gobs of butter on his toast and talked with his mouth full of egg. “I wanted to stay there and be a ... you know ... broker, but they said to go ... you know ... somewhere else and ... you know ... build up a book and come back.”

  “Why did you choose Rosenkind? You probably could have gone to Merrill or Dean Witter or any of the big houses with a training program.”

  “Well, you know ... I didn’t finish at Brooklyn. I only did two years. They all want college degrees, so ... you know ... my uncle knew some guy at Rosenkind through the union. My uncle is a glazier. Anyway, you know ... he was going to help me get started.”

  “And?” It was taking Tormenkov forever to get to the point. If he sold stock that way, he would never make it, she thought.

  “He did. But he ... you know ... I can’t stay there anymore.” He wiped up the residue of egg on his plate with the remainder of his toast.

  “Why? Can you be more specific? If I’m going to represent you to a client firm, Peter, I have to know everything. Do you have any customer complaints against you? Any compliance problems?”

  He shook his head. “No. My U4 is clean”

  “Then why do you want to leave? They will ask when you interview elsewhere. What will you say?”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he said, finally lifting his eyes from his plate and looking directly at her for the first time. “I can’t stay there.”

  “What do you want to do, then?” Wetzon’s sixth sense told her there was something wrong with him. “Unless you want to diversify your business, you won’t be happy at a big firm. If you want to stick to stocks and options, you’re better off with Bear, Oppenheimer, or Lehman. What is your trailing twelve in gross?”

  He frowned.

  “I mean,” she said patiently, “what is your gross production for the last twelve months?”

  Tormenkov stood abruptly. “Would you excuse me for a minute?”

  “Of course,” she said, feeling a chill. Every time a broker left her in the middle of a meeting these days, she thought of Barry Stark. She felt, irrationally, that he would never come back, or worse, be as dead as Barry was when she went looking for him. Don’t be a fool, she scolded herself, Pete Tormenkov had left his coat. Much difference that made. Barry, after all, had left his attaché case.

  Come on, Wetzon, old girl. Get out of this. She focused on the skaters, weaving and dipping to music she couldn’t hear. The older couple were still waltzing, stopping here and there to execute self-conscious little turns, aware they were attracting an audience. A young girl did a lovely pirouette.

  “David, you have to keep an open mind,” she heard someone say in a warm but professional tone. “Talk to them and see for yourself. They are getting top-quality work. S and C is referring work to them.”

  A murmured response came from David. Wetzon turned her head slightly, trying to find the speaker. There were certain code words, phrases, that headhunters used: “keep an open mind,” “see for yourself,” “test the waters,” “explore the possibilities,” and her all-time favorite, “you owe it to yourself.”

  “Don’t let someone else make a judgment for you,” the female voice continued, persuasively. “You owe it to yourself—”

  Bingo, Wetzon thought.

  “Okay,” the man said. “I’ll check it out. How does it work? I’ve never done this before.”

  “I know they’re looking for an ’85 litigator with your kind of credentials, so I’m going to send your resumé to Larry Simpson, the hiring partner—”

  “I’m sorry,” Peter Tormenkov said, pulling out his chair and sitting.

  Wetzon, almost disappointed he’d returned, shifted in her chair and saw that the people whose conversation she was eavesdropping on were the attractive black woman and her younger companion.

  “So, Peter Tormenkov,” Wetzon said, giving him her full attention again. “I’d like to let you get back to work. Let’s talk about what you want to do.”

  “Well ... you know ... I can’t do anything ... you know ... right now. I got ... you know ... this deal I’m working on....” he said, doing a complete about-face. “I’m not supposed to ... you know ... talk about it.”

  “I thought you couldn’t stay there? Now you’ve decided to stay?”

  “Yes.” Tormenkov didn’t look at her.

  “Okay. You have to do what you have to do.” Why was she sitting here wasting her time talking to him? She was feeling decidedly ungracious.

  He checked out the restaurant elaborately, then he pulled his chair closer to hers. “Can you keep ... you know ... this confidential?”

  “That’s part of my job, Peter,” she said, smiling through clenched teeth. “I wouldn’t be around very long if I didn’t keep confidences.” She looked at her watch. Eight forty-five. God, what a bore. Time to cut this short. Tormenkov was clearly in some kind of trouble, so he was sure to be unplaceable. She would not earn a fee on this one. Smith had been right.

  Tormenkov cupped his hand to his mouth. “I’m working for the FBI.”

  She snapped up, eyes wide. This was a new one. “What did you say?”

  “It’s a scam. I was ... you know ... contacted by this group ... you know ... they work as nurses’ aides for these ... you know ... senile old people ...”He glanced around nervously, as if he thought perhaps the skaters beyond the pane of glass could hear him. “I better not say ... you know ... anything more. It’s a secret. I just called them and they said ... you know ... I can’t leave ... I gotta work for them until it’s over ... I could lose my license ... if I didn’t.” He was on his feet again, shrugging into his coat. “I thought maybe ... you know ... after ... you could ...” His voice trailed off.

  “Why don’t you call me when your work with the FBI is finished,” she said. This was a new bit of craziness. Just the thought of the FBI using this twit as an operative made her dizzy. And she’d thought she’d heard everything. Brokers tended to overdramatize the already theatrical situation of brokering. The whole business was built on the grand story, the pitch, the hyperbole, the exaggeration. You couldn’t take any of it too seriously.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” he said. At least he left without you knowing her one last time.

  “Whew. Have some breakfast, Wetzon,” she murmured, watching Tormenkov weave gracelessly around the busy tables. She dug a strawberry out of her yogurt and poured the remaining coffee from the little pot into her cup. Outside, a teacher was giving a lesson to a slim man in a heavy hand-knit ski sweater, who stood stiffly erect on his skates. The wind blew powdery snow indiscriminately over the hardy few.

  She dreaded going back outside, but procrastinating only made it worse. She put her credit card on the bill and the waitress, who had been watching, came and took everything away.

  “Hello, excuse me, I couldn’t help recognizing—”

  Wetzon looked up and into the dark, lively eyes of the woman from the next table. Her probable comrade-in-arms. The woman smiled and put out her hand. “Diantha Anderson,” she said.

  “Leslie Wetzon.” Wetzon took her hand. “I recognized a few familiar phrases here and there myself.”

  “Lawyers,” Diantha Anderson said, smiling, presenting her card. She wound a long lime-green cashmere scarf around her head and neck.

  “Stockbrokers,” Wetzon said, rising, presenting her own card.

  “Can I drop you?” Diantha Anderson said. “My office is in the Chanin Building on Forty-second and Lex.”

  “No thanks, wrong direction. My office is at Forty-ninth, off Second.”

  Diantha Anders
on nodded. “Well, nice to meet you, Leslie. Let’s have a drink sometime and talk shop.”

  “I’d like that,” Wetzon said. “I’ll call you.”

  They shook gloved hands and parted on Fifth Avenue, where Diantha Anderson got into a cab and Wetzon, brushing off the dry snow from her coat, strode off eastward to her office.

  11.

  WETZON LOVED WALKING in the snow, especially this soft, white powder that floated down, noncommittally dusting her face and clothing and floating elsewhere whenever she stopped to shake herself off.

  The wind had quieted somewhat. Traffic was light, as if people had heard the weather report and thought better about coming into the city. Uptown on Park Avenue, the trees on the islands in the middle were already etched in white. Snowflakes stuck to Wetzon’s eyelashes, rested on her lips and cheeks, moisturizing, cleansing.

  New York is truly beautiful in its first meeting with snow, almost on best behavior. But, as they get acquainted, the good manners of both wear off, and they become dirty, icy, lumpy, and dangerous. Ugly. Just like people, Wetzon thought. And then reprimanded herself. Hey, hey, why so cynical all of a sudden, kiddo?

  “Hi, Kate, hi, Steve,” she said aloud, saluting with her right hand, as she passed Hepburn’s house, and then Sondheim’s standing next to each other on Forty-ninth Street. The street was inordinately quiet. Snow muffled all sounds, and no one was out except the crazies. “Wow!” she said out loud again, luxuriating in the wonderful feeling of privacy that comes only with walking on a New York City street in the midst of a snowstorm. The stillness was positively lush. Spoken words emerged heavy and thick, not straying far from the speaker.

  She looked around behind her. Some distance away was the lone figure of a man in a trench coat, carrying an umbrella. As she watched, he proceeded to fold and unfold it in a vain effort to shake off the accumulated snow.

  On Second Avenue, traffic moved downtown at a snail’s pace as the blanket of snow thickened. Horns blew like foghorns, more in warning than anger, which was usually why New York drivers pressed horns.

  She sighed. It would only get worse as the day progressed.

  She stamped the snow from her boots and whirled around, careful not to lose her footing, to remove the rest of the snow before she opened the door to their office.

  B.B. looked up, phone to his ear, and smiled. With his cropped hair and his athletic build, he looked more like a marine than a headhunter in training.

  “I’d like to hold,” he said politely but firmly into the telephone. He put his hand over the mouth of the receiver. “Good morning, Wetzon.”

  “Good morning, B.B.,” she said, hanging her coat in the closet, counting under her breath, “three, four—”

  “Good morning, Wetzon!” Harold burst out of the little cubbyhole they had built for him in the reception area when B.B. had been hired.

  “Five,” Wetzon said, turning to Harold. It had taken him less than five seconds to make points with her. He was so busy competing with B.B., he seemed to have forgotten that B.B. had been hired because Harold so wanted to become a full-time recruiter and take on his own candidates.

  “Good morning, Harold,” she said. “How is it going? Didn’t you have someone interviewing with Bache this morning?”

  “We had to cancel because of the weather. There’s a backup on the Long Island Expressway.”

  “No reason for today to be any different.” There was always some kind of backup on the Long Island Expressway. “Too bad. Try to get that rescheduled as soon as possible. Anyone else? Are you doing any interviews here today?” She opened the door to the office she and Smith shared.

  “No,” Harold said glumly, retreating to his cubbyhole. “The weather’s really killed me.”

  “My name is Bailey Balaban,” B.B. said, “and I work for Smith and Wetzon ... we do executive search on Wall Street ...”

  Wetzon closed the door behind her. She loved their office. Everything was black and white and red. Black vinyl tiles on the floor, white walls and shelves, white filing cabinets, and red countertops. Her section of the room was a little more cluttered than Smith’s, with mementos from her previous life as a Broadway dancer, antique odds and ends she had been collecting from flea markets over the years, two strange-looking aloe plants with long tentacles, and piles of newspapers and magazines and suspect sheets with interviews of potential candidates.

  Smith’s area was more pristine. Client files, several pictures of her son, Mark, at different ages, and a celebrity map of Connecticut, where Smith had a weekend “retreat,” showing where all the special people lived.

  “Oh Lord, there you are at last,” Smith cried. “What a day, and it’s not even ten o’clock! Everyone is canceling.” She stood up to give Wetzon a big hug. Smith looked gorgeous—tall, thin, wearing a Donna Karan outfit, a black wool jersey draped midcalf skirt, crimson turtleneck, and long black jacket, and high black leather boots.

  “Stunning, as always,” Wetzon said, returning the hug. “How many appointments did we have?” She turned away to look over her messages. Hazel had called.

  “Appointments? Not appointments. My party!”

  “Oh now, Smith, tell me, who has canceled?” She didn’t much care about Smith’s party. She was thinking about Hazel.

  “The Crowleys, that’s who, and Gordon Haworth.”

  “Well, the Crowleys live in Wilton, so that was to be expected. Connecticut will be a disaster. And Gordon Haworth, if I remember right, has been in D.C. all week testifying again about cleaning up the industry. Anyone else?”

  “Not yet, but I just know there’ll be more.”

  “Really, Smith, that’s not too bad. Yesterday you were worried that you’d invited too many people.”

  “You’re right. I won’t worry about it until later. How was the interview?”

  “Weird. He wants to leave, but he can’t leave ... because—get this—he’s working for the FBI—”

  “What? What did you say?” For a brief instant Smith forgot all about her party and gave Wetzon her full attention.

  “You heard me. Can you believe it? He didn’t strike me as being overly bright, either.”

  “He’s probably lying,” Smith said. “You know they all lie. I’m sure he has a problem, the usual, compliance, unauthorized trading, whatever.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. There’s some kind of scam going on at L. L. Rosenkind that some brokers are involved in, or so he hinted. I think he was trying to find out if he could go somewhere after—”

  “After what?”

  “After the investigation is completed.”

  “Well, if it should happen to be the truth, which I would seriously doubt, I hope you didn’t say anything that could get us into trouble,” Smith said grimly. “The tarot warned me—”

  “Smith, what are you talking about?”

  “Because if he is working for the FBI, he was probably wearing a wire.” She turned her back on Wetzon, disgusted, to answer her private phone. “Hi, sweetie pie,” she cooed into the telephone, “how’s my Leonola today?” She was talking to Leon Ostrow, their lawyer, and her “best beau,” as she sometimes called him.

  Wetzon felt foolish. She tried to remember what she had said to Peter Tormenkov. Innocuous stuff, for sure. Smith was so paranoid, Wetzon had learned to discount a great deal of what she said. But sometimes, just sometimes, Smith was right.

  She sat down at her desk and dialed the number Hazel had left.

  What would Hazel think if Wetzon said “sweetie pie” or “Hazola” into the phone when Hazel answered? She smothered a laugh. Good work, Wetzon. Don’t let her get to you.

  “Hello.” Hazel’s voice was hollow, but determinedly cheerful.

  “Hi there, my friend,” Wetzon said brightly.

  “Oh, Leslie dear. I’m so glad to hear your voice. I’m so sorry about yesterday ... involving you ...”

  “I don’t want to hear any apologies from you, madam,” Wetzon said with mock severity. “I’m glad
I was there with you.”

  “It was terrible, Leslie. Poor Peepsie. I know she was frightened and confused by her illness, but to do something like that—”

  “Hazel, remember, she was not herself. But right now I want to know about you. When are they letting you out?”

  “It couldn’t be too soon, Leslie. I really hate hospitals. Your nice friend Sergeant Silvestri is coming back this afternoon to take me home. That was so dear of you.”

  “Silvestri? Oh yes, of course.” What was Silvestri up to? “When did he call you?”

  “He didn’t. He came over to see me first thing this morning.”

  “God, Hazel, you must have thought he was a bum. He looked awful.”

  “Now, Leslie, after all this time you should know that doesn’t faze me. I liked him. And I see why you like him,” she added.

  Wetzon felt herself blush. “What time is he coming back?” she asked, flustered.

  “Around three. Don’t worry about me, dear. I’m very sad, but I’m fine. I have to make some arrangements for Peepsie ... they still haven’t been able to locate Marion.”

  “Oh, Hazel, do you have to? Isn’t there anyone else?”

  “There’s only a lawyer, who really didn’t know her. Besides, I want to.”

  “Okay, I have an interview around four, if it’s not canceled. The weather is horrendous, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m planning to come up and look in on you before I go home.”

  Wetzon felt the angry glare of Smith’s eyes on her as she hung up the phone.

  “Wetzon,” Smith said wrathfully, “if you are late for my party because of that old biddy, I’ll murder you.”

  12.

  “I THINK HE listens at our door,” Smith said.

  “Oh, Smith, you’re always so suspicious,” Wetzon said.

  “I think he goes through our private business papers when we’re not here.”

  “Well then, if you do, and you’re worried, let’s put everything under lock and key.”

  “Fahnley went belly up,” Harold said, coming right into their inner sanctum. They had warned him repeatedly that he was to knock first because he had a habit of barging in boisterously and interrupting business calls or private discussions.