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 pinstriped 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 his 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.