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

hear that. Okay. We’ll be there.” She put the phone down.
    “What’s going on?” Wetzon paused as the waiter returned and removed the phone. They were so efficient here.
    “The market is down fifty. No volume.”
    “What was it this time?” The market had been edgy for weeks.
    “There was a rumor that George Duckworth was going into Chapter 11. It’s being denied vigorously.”
    “Damnation, do you know what that will do to the banks?” Duckworth was a real estate mogul, another regular at the Four Seasons, but it was common knowledge that he was overextended and cash poor, that he had paid top dollar for his properties and the recession had hit him hard. He was having trouble refinancing. The news made Wetzon reach for her wine. “What did Rona want?”
    “She wants us to come to the Sussex House tomorrow at six.”
    “The Sussex House? How tacky.”
    Smith laughed. “My thought exactly. Dr. Jerome Gordon’s suite. He probably looks like Max and smokes a cigar. Who else would stay at the Sussex House?”
    “What’s it about? Did she say?”
    “Um.” Smith was eating voraciously.
    “Did she say?”
    Smith nodded, swallowed, took a sip of her drink. “Penny Poop just confessed to Brian’s murder.”

21.
    A T FOUR O’CLOCK on Tuesday afternoon Wetzon stepped off the elevator on the twenty-ninth floor of 1251 Sixth Avenue, where Bliss Norderman had its offices. She was familiar with the building, because both Morgan Stanley and Oppenheimer had offices there. She pushed the glass door open and entered a small but plush reception area where a black leather sofa on metal legs and two matching chairs sat on pale-cranberry carpeting. A receptionist was ensconced in the windowless room at a large mahogany desk with an appointment book laid out in front of her. The air-conditioning was on and the room was uncomfortably cool.
    “Leslie Wetzon,” Wetzon said. “I have an appointment at four o’clock with Tony Maglia.”
    “Have a seat, please, Ms. Wetzon.” The young woman picked up the phone and pressed two digits as if she were playing the piano. “Ms. Wetzon for Mr. Maglia.” She pulled her syllables like Lily Tomlin’s Ernestine. In fact, Wetzon thought, stealing another look at her, she even wore her hennaed hair rolled back from her face in a ’40s style and was decked out in one of Joan Crawford’s old suits with the huge shoulder pads. It was not unattractive. Wetzon wondered idly if she was wearing the Joan Crawford backless fuck-me shoes.
    “Wetzon.” A rugged man in white shirt sleeves, gold cuff links, his tight curly hair so black it looked dyed, held out his hand. He was wearing suspenders on which gold coins were needlepointed. He shook her hand enthusiastically. “Tony Maglia. Welcome to Bliss Norderman.”
    He was short, of course, and pompous. Somehow it went together. He led her through what appeared to be an H-shaped layout to his corner office with a spectacular view of downtown Manhattan through a full wall of glass that was never meant to be opened. No wonder the air-conditioning stayed on.
    “Very nice,” she said, drawn to the panoramic view. But looking out, she felt both claustrophobic and acrophobic and came away dizzy, taking a seat in front of the pseudo-Chippendale desk.
    A computer tipped slantwise on the right side of the desk, made little blipping noises.
    Hank Cooperman, a broker Wetzon had known for years, stuck his head in the open doorway. “Excuse me, but would you sign these for me, Tony?” He handed a sheaf of papers to Maglia. “Both sets.” While Maglia was delivering his lefty scrawl, Hank gave Wetzon a big wink. It wouldn’t do to let his manager know he knew her, unless he felt secure enough to torture Maglia and not have it boomerang.
    After Cooperman departed, Maglia leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been wondering when you and that snazzy partner of yours would get smart and want to work with us. We have the best story in town.” His smile was militant, brandishing bonded teeth. He gave her smarmy charm; she gave him her card. She leaned forward in her chair; she was going to enjoy this.
    “Much as we’d like to work with you, Tony, that’s not why I’m here today.”
    “Really?” A tiny shaft of curiosity glimmered in his eyes and blended with hostility, which was already there. He put his feet on the desk, practically in Wetzon’s face. “What’s on your ... mind, Wetzon?”
    Snake , she thought. So it was going to be