The Groaning Board

pregnant
along the cables between them.
    Wetzon smiled, not giving an inch.
Silence made people anxious, got them to fill the void, usually with
information they weren’t ready to share.
    “Well,” Laura Lee said finally, “are
there no secrets left: on Wall Street?”
    “None whatever.”
    More silence. Wetzon pressed her lips
together and waited Laura Lee out.
    “I’m goin’ to be havin’ a drink at
the bar at Oceana at five o’clock this afternoon. Why don’t you come and
whisper in my ear how you found out, Ms. Leslie Wetzon, darlin’?“
    “Let me look at my schedule.” Wetzon
counted to fifteen. “I could do that.”
    “You know, you have just told me in
an obscure way that you know somethin’ almost no one on the Street knows. I am
dyin’ to hear all about it.”
    “I’ll see you at five.”
    “Wetzon, wait a minute. I want you to
promise me you won’t say a word to anyone else about this. That means
you-know-who with whom you share your office. For this kind of inside
information, darlin’, some people would kill.”

Chapter Seven

     
     
     
    The bar at
Oceana on East Fifty-fourth Street pro- vided an intimate setting for a drink of an
afternoon, and Wetzon’s friend Laura Lee Day, money manager extraordinaire, was
exactly the type of successful, glamorous New Yorker whom the establishment
wanted to attract.
    Of course, when Laura Lee made an
appearance anywhere, she attracted attention. Waiters stumbled over one another
to serve her, and men of all ages wanted to make her acquaintance. It wasn’t
that she was beautiful, because she wasn’t. What she had was an inner glow, a joie and an intelligence filled with humor. The combination set her apart from other
women. Unlike most on the Street, Laura Lee read books other than Tom Clancy’s,
partook of the theatre, opera, ballet, concerts, and museums, all the cultural
events her adopted city offered. Because of her lively curiosity and
imagination, Laura Lee was always interesting.
    She’d come to New York from Mississippi to be a concert violinist and ended up at Merrill Lynch because her daddy had
refused to pay for any more music lessons. Not long after Wetzon had become a
headhunter, she’d met Laura Lee and placed her at Oppenheimer, and they’d
become friends. Laura Lee was still studying the violin, but now she was paying
for her own lessons.
    At the top of the stairs near the
entrance to the bar, Fabio sat at a table by himself. He looked utterly out of
place with his long hair, oversized features, and his open shirt—the better to
see the pecs, my dear. His body language gave away his need to be recognized.
Wetzon thought: Fabio, your Warhol fifteen minutes of fame are over.
    The bar was elegant and understated.
Quiet and dark. Wine racks rose to a soaring ceiling, at the pinnacle of which
was a huge metal fish.
    “Ah, there you are, darlin’.” Laura
Lee waved at Wetzon. She was surrounded by waiters and a couple of attractive
men in the pinstripe-and-white-shirt uniform of the financial world. The heads
all swiveled. Wetzon was on display for a brief moment before the heads all
swiveled back to Laura Lee.
    “Sit yourself down right here.” Laura
Lee patted the banquette she sat on and slid over.
    The crowd parted for Leslie Wetzon,
the thin blonde with the long neck and topknot, ex-Broadway chorus dancer in
costume of Wall Street headhunter. Everyone dispersed except for, luckily, one
waiter, who looked expectant.
    “Amstel Light,” Wetzon said. She
twitched her nose and pointed two fingers at him. The waiter disappeared.
    Laura Lee rolled her eyes.
“Practicin’ witchcraft?”
    “I find it’s good to keep trying new
things after the age of forty. Helps one stay young and full of beans.”
    “I can attest to that,” Laura Lee
said. She took a sip of white wine. “How’s the renovation cornin’?”
    “Don’t ask. They knock things down,
break through Walls, then go away for days—to work another job, I’m sure. I
just wish Louie had been able to handle it.”
    “Why couldn’t she?”
    “A S0H0 gallery offered her a show.
She needed the time t0 put it together.”
    “But a show, my, that’s grand. Are
you lendin’ your paintin’?”
    “If she wants it.”
    “And how is your dear partner?” She
pronounced it dee-ah.
    Wetzon look askance at her friend.
Why wasn’t she coming directly to the point? Laura Lee didn’t care a hoot about
Smith. “In her prime, thank you. She’s — would you