Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

from Bobby-I’m-on-the-lam-Baglia?”
    “He’s not on the lam anymore,” Sean said. “They picked him up on Crosby Street where he broke into his old girlfriend’s loft and beat her up. So I guess we’re not going to hear from him again.”
    “I wouldn’t count on it,” Wetzon said.
    Smith was ranging around the room like a caged leopard. “You have no idea, no idea, what my life is like,” she said, as Wetzon hung up her leather coat.
    “And a cheery good morning to you, too.” She set her briefcase on the floor near her desk.
    “Phone calls, newspaper people, not to mention the dirtbag brokers who are demanding, demanding, demanding. Don’t they know how unimportant they are? And why do they do this?” Smith pointed a dangerous, deep crimson-tipped finger at Wetzon. “Because you spoil them. You listen to all that whining and the garbage they shovel out and you believe them. They know they can count on you to be their advocate—”
    “So what’s wrong with that?” Wetzon picked up the pink message slips and sorted through them.
    “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Smith raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I can’t believe she said that.” She sat down with a long suffering sigh. “You’re a partner in their sleaze. And we become accomplices in sleaze.” Back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh, I just don’t know how much longer I can go on.”
    “You certainly get over it quickly enough when the checks come in.”
    “Well!” Smith pondered that. “There has to be a reward somewhere in this.” Brightened. “Let’s go to Saks.”
    “I just got here. I have calls to return and some catch up to do on the computer. And I have something rather extraordinary to tell you—”
    “We have to go to Saks, sweetie pie.”
    “Why?”
    “Um, we might want to smarten you up a bit. A few chic accessories ...”
    Wetzon recognized the doubletalk. Did not recognize the usual frown missing from Smith’s words. “I don’t care that I’m not a fashion plate,” she said. “It never hurt my business.” She sat down at her desk and booted up her computer. Eeeks, Smith was still focusing on her with that critical eye. “Will you stop that, please. There’s nothing wrong with this suit.”
    “Babycakes, really, the jacket is too long. You could use a scarf. Tee shirts are passe. We’ve gone back to crisp cotton shirts. We can perk up that poor suit a little with one of Ralph’s. And those shoes.” She shuddered.
    Uh oh, Wetzon thought. “Perk me up for what?”
    Smith smiled. “You’ll see.”
    “The hell with that, Smith. And what’s wrong with my shoes? They’re Ferragamos.”
    “Antique Ferragamos. The heels, sugar, are passe. Pumps are passe. Manolos are what the best women are wearing.”
    “I don’t think Hillary Clinton is wearing Manolos, Smith.”
    “Oh for pity sakes. I see your memory loss hasn’t made you wiser.” She took out her makeup bag and after checking her image in the small mirror, smiled at herself. No lines appeared.
    Wetzon groaned. “Smith, you’re having Botox.”
    “It’s very important for us to look right for our clients.” She fluffed her dark curls and put away her cosmetic bag. “It wouldn’t hurt you to do it, you know.”
    “Put poison in my face? Start looking expressionless like Cher? Thanks, but no thanks. After forty they say you’re responsible for your own face. I accept that responsibility.”
    The intercom buzzed. Max said, “We’re getting a lot of calls for Wetzon. Good morning, girls.”
    “Max—” Smith said.
    “What, dear?”
    Smith rolled her eyes. “Never mind.”
    “I’d better start taking my calls,” Wetzon said. “Do you have someone holding?”
    “Phil Mackey. Line three. He called yesterday and I pulled his suspect sheet. It’s on your desk.”
    “Max, you’re a gem.” Scanning the suspect sheet, Wetzon punched in line three. “Phil! It’s been ages.”
    “You don’t call me any more, Wetzon. After our long history together ... I’m hurt.”
    “You’ve been with Durkin Aldrich for ten years, Phil, so a move is highly unlikely.” She paused, listening for a clue, and in the silence, heard what she wanted. A fissure, giving Wetzon an advantage. Perhaps. “You know, we should have a drink and catch up—for old time’s sake. What do you say?”
    “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe there’ve been some changes here I can catch you up on.”
    She cleared mail and phone message slips from her desk