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 turned 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.”

Smith ignored her. “Anyway,” she said, “the Grossmans run a counseling service for the aging. They have a staff of professionals who take histories and do in-depth interviews with clients, decide on their needs, and then recommend therapists, exercise teachers, beauticians, nurses, housekeepers, all of whom make house calls. They take a percentage of each fee from the professional and they also charge a nominal fee for the first visit to the client to cover the cost of computers and paperwork.”

“Very impressive,” Wetzon said.

“Actually,” Smith said, “I think they do what we do. They match clients to a particular professional in a particular service.”

“This is a Leon Ostrow special, I take it?” Leon Ostrow was their attorney.

“Of course,” Smith said. “You know how smart Leon is about these things. He handled their incorporation, and as soon as he heard what the idea was, he knew it would take off. He’s offered to handle your investments, Wetzon. You should let him—”

“I’ll stick to the stock market, thank you very much. I feel more comfortable there. I like the action.”

“Oh, Wetzon, everyone knows you can’t get rich in the stock market, not unless you already have millions. It’s just too controlled by the institutions. The small investor doesn’t have a shot.”

“I guess I’m still a gypsy, Smith. If I buy stock in good companies, I’ll do all right. I like choosing the companies myself. I like the risk taking and the ride.”

Smith slipped the material she’d been reading into a large manila envelope. “And I suppose you’ve made money in the market,” she said, needling. “What good tips have the brokers given you lately?”

“Oh come on, Smith,” Wetzon said to Smith’s back. Her stomach clenched and anger flared like a lump of hot coal. Smith was always so superior about her business knowledge. “You know I don’t listen to those tips ... anymore.”

“Anymore.”

Wetzon, smarting, was about to retort when there was a rap on their door. Harold Alpert poked his head in.

“Excuse me, I’m sending B.B. out for lunch. Do you want him to get anything for you?”

Smith and Wetzon looked at each other. Ever since they had hired Bailey Balaban, known as B.B., to be the cold caller and promoted Harold to junior associate, Harold had been playing office manager and big shot. He had become so overbearing and officious he was beginning to drive both of them crazy.

“Your turn to talk to him,” Wetzon mouthed.

“I know,” Smith responded.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, Smith,” Harold said.

Smith put the manila envelope into the file drawer next to her desk. “I’ll have meat loaf on a roll and a linzer cookie,” she said. “I’m starved. Please don’t order tuna again, Wetzon.”

“Nothing for me today,” Wetzon said. “I’m having lunch uptown with Hazel Osborn.”

Harold backed out of the room. They heard him say, “Now here is the lunch order, B.B. Try to get it right this time, if you don’t mind.” The door closed.

“See what I mean?”

Smith frowned at Wetzon as if she had interrupted an important thought. “I can’t, for the life of me, understand what you and that nosy old biddy have in common,” Smith said with just the edge of jealousy in her voice. Her eyes glittered. “She’s not even rich enough to leave you anything in her will.”

“Smith, you’re impossible. Everything with you hinges on money. Hazel is a very special person, and I really care about her. She’s my friend.”

“Humpf. She can’t do anything for you. She has no money, no contacts. Friends,” Smith declaimed, not for the first time, “friends have to be useful.”

“I’m certainly glad you thought I was useful, Smith,” Wetzon replied crossly. “What a relief. I was starting to worry about it.” She put her pens and pencils back into the pressed glass spooner, studied her daily list of calls to be made. Most had been checked off. “I may or may not be back later.” She looked again at her datebook. No appointments. “I can make any calls I have to make from home.” She packed her notes and current suspect sheets which contained profiles of the brokers she was working with in her briefcase. “Okay, I’m off.”

Smith was watching her, disappointment on her face. “What are you going to do this afternoon?”

“I don’t know ... shop ... take a class maybe.”

“Call me. I’ll meet you at Bloomie’s. We can wander around.”

“What about your party?”

“Oh, everything’s taken care of. All I have to do is appear. Besides, that’s tomorrow night.” She smiled and stood, tall and lean in her gray wool jersey dress and three-inch heels. She towered over Wetzon. “I found this wonderful chef-caterer ... As a matter of fact ...”

“Don’t tell me,” Wetzon said. “I know. You’ve invested in the company.”

“Wetzon, you’re really very cruel.”

“Am I right? Tell the truth.”

“Okay, okay, you’re right.” Smith walked to the washroom. “Tell me, who are you bringing to my party? Silvestri?” She turned, her hand resting on the doorknob.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Wetzon still felt vaguely uncomfortable about Silvestri and Smith because when they had first met, Silvestri had seemed more interested in Smith than in Wetzon. And Smith, who was so sharp about picking up on vulnerability, had promptly sensed this and played on it. Smith was watching her closely now, and Wetzon turned away. Time to change the subject. “Do something about Harold, will you? He’s become obnoxious. We’ve created a monster.”

Smith grimaced. “I know, and it’s my fault. I felt he needed a better self-image, so I encouraged him. Now I’ll have to tone him down a little—”

“A lot,” Wetzon said firmly. “I can’t stand being around him, and I’m sure it’s not an asset when he talks to brokers. Yesterday I heard him tell someone that he and only he could get him an appointment with Bear, Stearns, that Jimmy Cayne calls him for advice all the time.”

“He didn’t!” Smith was shocked and furious. “That little bastard. Now he’s gone too far.”

“I told him in no uncertain terms that he could not say that, and he was never to do anything like that again,” Wetzon said, “but I think you’re going to have to talk to him, too.” The truth was, Harold always seemed more anxious to be in Smith’s good graces than in Wetzon’s.

“My God, if Jimmy heard that, we’d never work for the Bear again.” Smith’s eyes were black with anger.

Wetzon started to open the door to the front room. “After everything I’ve—we’ve—done for him,” Smith raged. She was giving off high-danger sparks.

Wetzon closed the door behind her, smiling.