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

machine that she had an emergency and was on her way over.
    “We could have so much fun being roomies. Come on, sugarplum.” Smith was salivating for the chance to get her hands on Wetzon’s life.
    “No way.” Wetzon shook her head emphatically at the skinny black woman in dirty sweatshirt and ragged jeans, rubber thongs on bare feet, who was shoving a paper cup at her. The woman babbled something at her through crooked teeth, then gave up and went after a stately old lady in a stunning black-and-white suit, a black hat on her head with a jaunty polka-dotted band. Her hands in white gloves carried no purse. Saturday morning, the Jewish Sabbath, she was probably going to one of the synagogues in the neighborhood.
    “You could come up here and spend the rest of the weekend.” She’d called Smith collect at her Connecticut house from the pay phone on the corner.
    “Can’t. I’ve got a mess to clean up here.”
    “Humpf. Then let’s have dinner tomorrow night. Dick Tracy’s still in Washington, right?”
    “Right. Dinner’s fine—oops—no, it’s not.... Oh, dear.” She’d just remembered her date with Alton Pinkus. She’d have to break it. No. Why should she? They were to meet at the restaurant anyway.
    “Hello? Wetzon? Are you there?”
    “I can’t, Smith. I have ... er ... uh ... dinner plans.” She could hear Smith’s mind mulling over that one.
    “You have a date.” It was an accusation.
    “No!”
    “You do. I know. You can’t keep anything from me. The tarot showed another man, an older man. Who is it?”
    “My grandfather. I have to go. There are three people dying to use this phone.”
    “Wait a—”
    Wetzon hung up. There was no one dying to use the phone. She’d wanted to tell Smith about Alton, but Smith would make such a big deal of it.
    She strolled down Eighty-sixth Street toward Broadway. It was a crisp, dry autumn Saturday. Hard to be depressed on such a day, even if your apartment was flooded and you had to move out. Joggers were out in force, as were young mothers with children in strollers. The sky was a deep, cloudless blue, not one streak of haze anywhere. From Broadway and Eighty-sixth Street, she had a clear view of the Hudson River across to the cliffs of New Jersey.
    Arthur Margolies, Esquire, owned a five-room apartment in a smart old West End Avenue building. The rooms were enormous by comparison to Wetzon’s, the windows broader, taller, the tone, tonier. The building had the full complement of doormen and elevator men in musical-comedy uniforms.
    “They just got back,” the doorman said, announcing her.
    “They just got back,” the elevator man said, taking her up to the tenth floor.
    As she walked down the hall, the door to Arthur’s apartment flew open. “Birdie!” And dear, wonderful Carlos gathered her in. A fashion plate in tennis garb, he wore a white cable-stitched pullover casually on his shoulders, sleeves tied loosely in front. “What’s wrong?” He held her at arm’s length and studied her face.
    They were exactly the same height, both slim, but he was as dark as she was pale, black hair, mischievous jet eyes. The diamond stud in his left earlobe glittered against bronze tanned skin.
    She felt her face begin to crumple under his scrutiny. She looked down and focused on the tennis racquets leaning against the big oak umbrella stand. She saw Arthur’s concerned face materialize behind Carlos and choked up.
    “Oh, dear heart, please tell Carlos what happened. Did somebody die? Your partner, perhaps?” He said it hopefully. Smith and Carlos had always loathed one another.
    She gave him a measly punch and, half laughing, half crying, burbled out pieces of it between sobs, and soon found herself sitting in their huge kitchen sipping hot chocolate.
    While Carlos dictated, Arthur fussed over a yellow legal pad. “First,” Carlos said, “Princely Service is sending two Hazels over to your apartment at twelve. They will bring a U-Haul. They are going to pack you up and move you down to Tenth Street.”
    “Tenth Street? Your place?”
    He nodded. “My sublet moved to the Coast last month. He thinks he’s going to be the next Rock Hudson. God save us.” Carlos fluttered his long dark lashes and rolled his eyes heavenward. “I had it cleaned and painted and was just going to show it again, Birdie, so it’s yours for as long as you need it.”
    “Oh, Carlos, you’re the best.” She gave him a hug.
    “Don’t I