The Groaning Board

believe — talking with Mort
Hornberg about producing TV specials.”
    “Give me a break,” Laura Lee said.
    “The one on Combinations was a
blockbuster...”
    “Is the grand Xenia givin’ up huntin’
heads?”
    “No way. We’ve got Darlene Ford, the
Sammy Glick of headhunters, practically running the business out from under
    33
    US.
    The waiter set the beer, foaming in a
tall glass, in front of Wetzon.
    “Do you mind?” Laura Lee asked
Wetzon. “About Darlene and the business?”
    “Sometimes. But I’d rather have her
working for us than for Tom Keegen. I’m just waiting for her to lock horns with
the mighty Smith. It’ll be bloody, mind you.”
    “Why, Wetzon darlin’, if I didn’t
know better I’d think you were looking forward to it.”
    “Moi?” Wetzon grinned at her and took a swallow of
beer. “Truth is, I wouldn’t mind making a few waves. Recruiting is dull right
now. The whole business has changed. Clients merged with nonclients. Happy
hunting ground go bye-bye. And all these new pension plans the firms have instituted
are nothing but golden handcuffs. No one is moving.”
    “I hear that the big upfront deals
are dryin’ up,” Laura Lee said.
    “It’s a real drought. A manager
actually told me he was happy about it because now brokers would join his firm
for its quality without the bribe of money.”
    “You’re joking. He actually said
that?”
    “I swear, Laura Lee. Any fool knows
that no one would consider going anywhere without a deal. He thinks his firm is
so special, wait till he sees he can’t recruit.”
    “Tsk, tsk. Your account is up
thirty-five percent so far this year. You can always rest on your laurels.”
    “What and leave show business?”
    They laughed, clicked their glasses,
then studied each other. Wetzon was unwilling to ask the first question.
    “Did you see Fabio when you came up
the stairs?” Laura Lee ran her tongue around her full lips.
    “Yes. He’s so weird-looking.”
    “It’s the bod, darlin’, the bod.”
    Wetzon shook her head. “Not my type.”
    “Speaking of your type...“
    “He’s fine, though I haven’t seen him
since yesterday morning. He’s working on some special case.”
    “So...“ Laura Lee said. She looked
past Wetzon in the direction of Fabio.
    She’s stalling, Wetzon realized. Then
she thought, no, she’s waiting for someone. Wetzon took another sip of beer and
rose. “Well, it’s been fun, but I have to run along now.” Laura Lee jumped up.
“Oh, no. You can’t go—”
    “What is all this about, Laura Lee?
If you don’t tell me right now, I’m going home.”
    “Ah, there he is.” Again she was
looking over Wetzon’s shoulder.
    Wetzon turned. A slim, bearded man in
a gray Armani suit with a black tee and no tie was shaking Fabio’s hand,
patting his shoulder. Leaving Fabio, he came toward Wetzon and Laura Lee, a
smile on his face. He was carrying a yellow leather backpack.
    A wide expanse of scalp cut a path back
from his forehead to the top of his head.
    Wetzon knew him from somewhere. Where
had she seen him before? She looked at Laura Lee, puzzled. Laura Lee pointed to
the banquette from which Wetzon had risen. Wetzon sat down and waited for the
arrival of the mystery guest. His progress was slow because he was meeting and
greeting everyone in the room as if he were some kind of celebrity.
    When he finally reached their table,
he cheek-kissed Laura Lee, straightened, and offered Wetzon his hand. “Leslie
    Wetzon, I presume?” He had a small
hand with plump fingers. On his wrist was a watch that told the time in every
world capital.
    Wetzon waited for the introduction.
    Laura Lee smiled. “Wetzon, darlin’,
this is Hem Barron.”

Chapter Eight

     
     
    “It’s
exploratory,” Hem Barron said. His smile was so intimate that Wetzon could barely keep from
crossing her hands over her breasts.
    Twirling her empty beer glass, she
noted that Laura Lee was assiduously avoiding eye contact. “Of course, a red
herring.”
    Hem fished the olive out of his
martini and ate it. “We’re just in the proposal stage, you understand. Not for
public consumption.”
    “Oh, I see.” Wetzon nodded. “Not for
public consumption. Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
    “Your friend is very funny,” Hem told
Laura Lee. He focused sincere brown eyes on Wetzon’s bosom.
    “My friend is very smart, Hem,” Laura
Lee retorted, “so let’s cut the schlag .”
    Hem’s composure never even wavered.
“It was my idea,”