The Groaning Board

to replace Darlene.”
    “Haven’t I always said he was a
sweetie? Let’s order lunch.”
    They worked the phones side by side
until four-thirty, when Smith rose, stretched languidly, and announced, “I’ve
had it. We’re going to Hem’s for dinner—”
    “I’ll probably be there with Bill.”
    “Good. Close down at five. There’s no
point in killing ourselves.”
    “Okay. On your way out tell Max he
can go, but he should lock up when he leaves. I’m just going to set up my book
for tomorrow. I’m meeting Benny Flaxman for a drink late in the day to hear how
it went. Wanna come?”
    “You have surely lost your mind,
sugar bun. Xenia Smith never, ever wants to meet broker and sit with pond scum
on a Friday night in July when she can be in Westport. Well, really.”
    Smith blew her a kiss. “Night,
sweetie. See you later.“
    “Good night, Wetzon,” Max called a
few minutes later. “Lock up, Max.”
    “Okay.”
    The phone rang. “Go ahead, Max, I’ll
get it. Hello, Smith and Wetzon.”
    “Les? I’m on my way uptown. Where you
gonna be in the next half hour?”
    “At Bill’s.”
    “I don’t want to talk there,”
Silvestri said.
    “Okay. Why don’t you meet me in the
sculpture garden at the Museum of Modern Art?”
     
    ♦ ♦ ♦
     
    When Wetzon left the office, she
rechecked the locks, tweaking herself, sure, lock the barn...
    The heat had subsided and a light
breeze enveloped the City. A faint gust of cigar fumes wafted at her from
across the street where a heavyset man leaned against the newsstand reading the Post. The headline said: MICKEY GETS MICKEY. It didn’t take a brain
surgeon to figure out that they meant Micklynn had been poisoned. Shuddering,
Wetzon hurried her steps.
    The sculpture garden of MOMA was serenity in stone, a place where one could transcend the hectic pace of the City. It
was a canyon surrounded by glass and steel and concrete on three sides and the
tops of old brownstones on the fourth.
    Wetzon sat on a wire chair beside one
of the rectangular pools and listened to her own breathing. Her mantra came
drifting into her consciousness like an old friend. Yes, she thought. Welcome.
She closed her eyes.
    Someone pulled a chair over and sat
down beside her. “You smell of cigarettes,” Wetzon said. She opened her eyes.
“It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah.” Silvestri was staring hard at
Picasso’s Goat.
    “I love all the flowers. Hey, look at
that.”
    “Look at what?” He swiveled his head
around.
    “That man over there near the
doorway.”
    “What about him?”
    “He was smoking a cigar across the
street from my office a little while ago.”
    “Oh, he was, was he? Didn’t know he
was into art.“
    “You know him?”
    Silvestri didn’t answer, because he
was off the bench like a shot. He cornered the man, then, as Wetzon watched
incredulous, actually shook hands with him. What the hell was going on?
    When Silvestri returned, she asked
him.
    “It’s okay. He’s an ex-cop. Veeder
hired him to keep an eye on you.”
    “Keep an eye on me! That’s
insulting.”
    “No, it’s not. He’s worried about you
and so am I.“
    “I’m fine, Silvestri. What did you
want to see me about?“
    “It’s the same voice, Les. On both
tapes.”
    “Judge Cameron?”
    “He made a speech at a PBA dinner
this past winter. It was recorded. When we got a voice match, I had a little
chat with him.”
    “He didn’t seem like a psychopath,
Silvestri.”
    “They’re never what they seem. And he
may not be a murderer. He may just be an obscene caller. Or he may be none of
the above.”
    “Whatever. One thing’s for sure. He’s
not the breather who was calling me.”
    “Say again?”
    “The breather turned out to be our
associate. You know, the one whose ass you got hung up on this morning while
she was making a phone call.”
    “She’s the breather? How do you
know?”
    “She knew I was on to her and she
flew the coop to our competition, taking a lot of our papers with her.”
    “I’m sorry, Les.”
    “We’ll get through it, if only I can
keep Smith from killing Tom Keegen.”
    “He’s the competition your associate
flew to, I take it.“
    “Yup.”
    “How long are you going to stay at
Veeder’s?”
    “Don’t know. Does it matter?”
    “I just want to know where to reach
you if I need you.” He hadn’t answered her directly, but she gave him Veeder’s
phone number. “What exactly did the judge have to say about the tape?”