Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

going to say something. Wetzon moved forward.
    “You look stunning,” the woman said.
    Wetzon passed the bag lady, giving her an uncertain smile. How do you handle something like that? She’d never been able to figure it. Maybe you had to have been born in New York to be that blasé.
    On the fifty-fifth floor a slim, dark-haired woman with a slight French accent was arranging lilies in a tall glass vase and stopped to greet her. This was a big plus. Make a note: receptionist in office at seven-thirty. Impressive.
    As for the office itself, it was equally impressive. Everything was wood paneled, including the reception desk, in warm walnut, smacking of wealth and luxury. Rich black leather sofas and chairs sat on a low-pile taupe carpet. Plants were discreet.
    Eliot McConnell, a short, wiry bundle of enthusiasm in a blue pinstripe, had a machine-gun speech pattern that forced concentration. Wetzon always had to replay in her head the rat-tat-tat of words coming at her at top speed for translation.
    But the office was beautiful, subtly lit, dripping wealth in a laid-back way. There were thirty-six enormous private offices. “I have eighteen offices not spoken for, Wetzon, and another six I’m holding for a group coming over from First B-O.” He threw open a door to a private dining room, all windows, round tables, white linen, china, crystal, and a dazzling view of the city. Some of the tables were occupied by thousand-dollar suits. Everyone looked to be in his—because Wetzon was the only woman present—forties or fifties, more like corporate executives than stockbrokers. And indeed, most million- dollar producers ran their business as if they were running a corporation. Truly a private men’s club.
    “We want to do this on a fee basis.” Eliot signaled to a tall, distinguished black man in a black suit. He motioned Wetzon to a table away from those occupied. “I’ll have my usual, John, thank you. What’ll you have, Wetzon?”
    “A toasted English and decaf.” John moved on without a word, without writing anything down. Wetzon turned to Eliot. “What do you mean, fee based?” On guard, Wetzon , she told herself. You’re about to get screwed.
    “We’re capping you at fifty-thousand a hire.”
    “Fifty? Eliot, let’s be serious here.” John came by and poured coffee into their cups, then left. “Fifty is five percent for a million in production, and we’re expecting to show you people who do a good deal more than a million. Our other clients pay us more than that. Where’s the incentive to send these guys to you?”
    “Wetzon, look around.” He waved his hand, sweeping the room. “Does one of your other clients have anything like this? We have a great story to tell. We have every service in the book all built in, health club included, memberships, everything. I guarantee, you send me the right people, I’ll close them.” He kept right on talking as they were being served.
    Linen napkins. Superb coffee. Perfectly toasted English muffin. “I’ll have to discuss it with Smith. I feel fifty is inappropriate if we bring you a two-million-or-more producer.”
    Eliot’s breakfast was a soft-boiled egg served in a white porcelain egg cup, whole wheat toast, mixed fruit, and coffee. He wore his light-brown hair close to his head, combed flat and to the side in a failed effort to hide a widow’s peak. Did he think it made him look like a wuss? He paused, spoon perched over his egg, then gestured with the spoon. “Two mil, sixty k. Three or more, seventy-five, and that’s it.” He dug his spoon into the egg.
    “I’ll let you know.”
    “Don’t wait too long. I’d like to give you and Smith first crack at this, for old times’ sake.”
    “For old time’s sake, Eliot, you should pay us our fee.” She thought, Old times’ sake? Give me a gigantic break. What old times? They were being chiseled to death.
    “Wetzon, I know you girls do a good job, so I’m willing to work with you. And incidentally, we can use a woman or two, so we can keep affirmative-action wackos out of our faces. Our fee structure is a business decision. If you don’t want to participate, we’ll get someone else. I’m having lunch with a couple of your competitors today, Tom Keegen and his associate, and they’ve made it quite clear that they’re amenable.”
    Wetzon shook hands with him and took her leave without telling him he had egg yolk running down his chin. Yeah, that’ll show him, Wetzon.
    It was only