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

her books to be copied tomorrow night.”
    “Good.” Back to the phone, Smith trilled, “How’s my darling boy?”
    “Moving right along,” Wetzon murmured. She blew her nose and blotted her face. “Hi, Joan. What’s up? I thought you don’t like to talk during market hours.”
    “Wetzon, I just wanted you to know that I’ve been to see Simpson, Milgram, and Quinn and I was impressed.”
    Wetzon felt her eyes cross. “SMQ? We work with them. Didn’t you tell me you would only move as a sales manager? SMQ doesn’t have any management positions open.” And even if they did, Wetzon knew, they would never hire a woman to fill them.
    “You’re right, they don’t. It was this other headhunter. He was such a pest. I told him not to call me, but he called and called every hour practically. I couldn’t get rid of him, so to make him stop I said I’d go and talk to SMQ.”
    “I’m so proud of you, baby,” Smith said into her phone.
    “I guess I must have the wrong approach, Joan. You set up the rules, I followed them, and look what happens. May I ask who the other headhunter is? Maybe I should call him up and have him give me some pointers in recruiting.”
    “I wouldn’t have told you, Wetzon, if I thought you’d take it like this. You’re my friend.”
    Smith was making kissing noises into the phone.
    “How do you expect me to take it?” Wetzon asked, brushing off the you-are-my-friend crap. She had no friends in the business. Except for Laura Lee.
    “Don’t worry, Wetzon. I’m not going. I just thought I should be honest with you. They made me a wonderful offer.” Joan was trying to assuage her, but Wetzon wasn’t assuageable. “Better than Fred’s. They offered me a guaranteed salary for a year of four hundred thou.”
    “Upfront is better, because the money begins earning out for you right away. Besides, with Fred you’ll have the additional fourteen-k salary as sales manager.”
    “Well, I still think SMQ’s is a wonderful offer....”
    “But you’re not taking it?”
    “No. I’m going to go with Fred. I do want to be a sales manager, because sales managers at the major firms always get the privilege of handing out accounts and first choice on which to keep. The only thing is, Wetzon, I’m not sure I want to go this soon. I haven’t been able to sell my condo in Brooklyn Heights, and I’m closing on the house in Westchester in two weeks. It’s just too much pressure all at once. I’m sort of looking at Thanksgiving week.”
    “Moving home or business is always difficult, Joan, and I agree with you it would be better not to do both at the same time, but don’t delay too long. I hear they’re going to revise the deals in November. You want to get in the door before—”
    “Fred assured me that even if they do, I’ll be grandfathered in on the old deal, so long as I sit before the end of the year.”
    “Oh, really? Fred said he’d give you till the end of the year?” Wetzon repeated for Smith to hear.
    Smith promptly gave Fred the finger in absentia.
    “My, isn’t Fred wonderful?” Wetzon said, but she was thinking, Curse Fred, the schmuck. If a broker doesn’t make the move on the first momentum, he probably wouldn’t later. It worked on the seize-the-day principle. If not for the broker, at least for the headhunter.
    “I’ll touch base with you later in the week, Joan. And if you decide you want to look at any other firm, just tell me. Please.”
    “Don’t you want to know who the other headhunter is?” Joan asked.
    “No,” Wetzon said. She hung up and swiveled around. “You heard?”
    “Enough. There’s another headhunter involved?”
    “Yup. I don’t want to know who. I have enough on my plate right now.”
    “It’s that dirtbag Keegen. He’s getting in my face,” Smith hissed. She was seething. Wetzon could almost see smoke coming out of her ears.
    Their doorbell rang, then Max brought in a Federal Express envelope.
    “What’s this?” Smith took it and opened it, careful not to snag a nail. “Ah, look what we have here.” She pulled out a book covered in gaudy purple suede. Across the front in gold script it said, “My Diary.”
    “Tabby talks,” Wetzon said.

20.
    “T HIS IS ON me, sugar,” Smith said, as if she had a big surprise for Wetzon. “Do you have the diary?”
    “Yes. Where are we going?” Wetzon was feeling petulant. Sleeplessness always made her cranky.
    “Don’t snap my head off. It’s not my fault,” Smith