The Groaning Board

associate,
Darlene Ford,” she said. “Would you like to meet her?”
    “Huh?”
    “Forget it.” She opened the door and
got out. “It’s been grand.” Darlene was just standing there at the phone, not
talking, then she hung up.
    “Watch yourself, y’hear?” Silvestri
called.
    Wetzon slammed the door. Darlene was
coming down the street, tottering on too high heels. She hadn’t noticed Wetzon,
who had tucked herself into the shallow doorway of Le Bon Café.
    “Well, good morning, Darlene.” Wetzon
stepped out in front of Darlene.
    “Oh, my goodness!” Darlene’s hand
flew to her bosom. “Sorry I startled you. Are you usually in this early? It’s
only seven-thirty.”
    “I stayed in town last night.”
    “Oh. Doesn’t your key work?”
    “My key? You mean my key to the
office? Ummm...
    why?”
    “Because I saw you standing at the
pay phone on the corner and wondered why you didn’t just use the phone in the
office.”
    “It sticks sometimes. My key.”
    “I’ll get you a new one.”
    “You don’t have to do that, Wetzon.
If you give me yours, I’ll get a new one made.”
    “Nonsense, you have more than enough
to do.” Wetzon picked up the fat roll of mail from their mat and tucked it
under her arm. Unlocking the door, she stepped inside, dropping her key case
back in her purse. She held out her palm to Darlene and smiled. “Hand it over.
I want to make up a spare to leave with Bill anyway.”
    With obvious reluctance, Darlene
produced her key and gave it to Wetzon. “Thank you,” she said. “Do you want me
to sort the mail?”
    “I don’t think so. By the way, I’ve
noticed that our pace of placements has slowed down considerably.”
    “Well, nobody wants to go anywhere
without a deal.”
    In that respect, Darlene was right.
No one wanted to 111 ove without an upfront check, or hiring bonus, as the outside
world called the cash payment a successful broker received if he made a move to
another firm.
    Wetzon said, “I have the distinct
feeling that they’re going to reinstate all the deals including upfront very
soon now. So I think we should have a ton of candidates interviewed, primed,
and ready to go when it happens.”
    She went upstairs, dumped the roll of
mail on her desk, and made coffee. As she waited for the coffee to drip
through, she opened the mail. Bills, newsletters, five checks, now that was
nice. Each went into a category pile. The magazines too. She filled her mug,
then steeled herself and listened to her voice mail.
    The breather came through loud and
clear, along with the sound of street traffic. Now, wasn’t that interesting.
    She called Bill Veeder, and was put
right through. “I’m in the office,” she reported.
    “You okay?”
    “Yes. I may have an answer to half of
the problem, but I want to talk to Smith first because it’s a business
decision.”
    “I’m not following you.”
    “I don’t mean to be abstruse. I’ll
explain later.” After she replaced the receiver, she wondered why she hadn’t
told him what was on her mind. Damn Silvestri. If he was trying to unsettle her
feelings about Bill, he’d succeeded.
    Sighing, she picked up her private
line to call Smith, and heard a crash downstairs. Setting the phone down, she
walked over to the stairs and called, “You okay, Darlene?”
    Darlene’s swift reply practically cut
Wetzon off. “Yes. Knocked my lamp off the table, but it’s okay.”
    Back at her desk, Wetzon punched in
Smith’s number. It rang three times, then a man answered. “Xenia Smith’s
residence.”
    “Are you her butler now, Mr. Goldman
Barnes II?”
    “Hi, Wetzon. You never know who’s
going to be calling Xenie—Sandy Weill, Arthur Levitt, Donald Marron.” Twoey
named three moguls of the financial community. “I wouldn’t want to compromise
her.”
    Wetzon laughed. “I’d let you
compromise me anytime, Twoey.”
    “See, I was just telling Xenie that
you’re the nicest person I know.”
    “I don’t know if nice wins any prizes
anymore, Twoey, but thank you. Where’s my lady?”
    “In the shower.”
    “I need to talk to her as soon as
possible.”
    “I’ll tell her. Is everything okay
with—”
    “Yes. It’s not that, it’s business.”
She cradled the phone and went over her messages. It was after eight; managers
were in their offices and brokers were beginning to arrive at their desks.
    An hour passed and Smith had not
called. Wetzon tried again. Now there was no answer. I’ll kill her,