The Groaning Board

had been hit with class-action lawsuits regarding the risky limited
partnerships the firm pushed brokers to sell in the eighties to inappropriate
investors, like the elderly, the widowed, and the orphaned. “I would think the
firm’s bad publicity makes it difficult to hold on to clients,” she said.
    “You know it’s that guy in the Times who keeps picking away at us just because he wants a book deal.”
    “So, tell me, Carl, what are your
numbers?”
    “I’m annualizing at $800,000.”
    “And you’re looking for a mil
upfront?”
    “That’s my asking price.”
    “Forget it. If you were doing two
mil, we could talk, but these days most of the upfront deals have dried up. On
$800,000, you might be able to get $250,000 or $300,000.“
    “No way. They pay me a mil and get a
TV personality too. Otherwise, I stay put.”
    “You’re absolutely right to stay put,
Carl. You’re probably locked in with proprietary products that are not
portable. You’d leave half your book on the table.”
    “But-—”
    “It was nice talking with you. I’ll
watch for your TV appearances.” Wetzon hung up.
    “See what scum they are,” Smith said.
“This is a perfect example of how they lie all the time.”
    “Not all of them.”
    “Oh, I know you always have your
favorites, but you’re so gullible, sweetie pie. What am I going to do with you?
You believe whatever anyone tells you.” She took her Tarot cards from her
handbag and began to shuffle them.
    “Smith—”
    “And it’s such an endearing quality,
sugar,” Smith con-tinued, shuffling languidly. “By the way, I want you to be
nice...” She lingered on the word nice, „...to Bill Vee-der. He’s such a
lovely man.”
    “Excuse me? Bill Veeder?” A thought
hit her. “Dammit, Smith, is that why you were so insistent on knowing my route
home last week? You were setting me up.”
    Smith smiled her Cheshire cat smile;
she held the deck to her breast for a moment and closed her eyes. When she
opened them, she began to lay out the cards across her desk, all the while
carrying on an indistinguishable murmuring.
    “Grrrr,” Wetzon said. This was so
typically Smith. Condemn, flatter, manipulate, change the subject. Still, Smith
did have a sixth sense. It had been over a week now since Sheila Gelber’s
shivah and Silvestri was hardly around, physically as well as emotionally.
Wetzon looked down at the next suspect sheet, picked up the phone, and called
Benny Flaxman at Loeb Dawkins in Ashland, Oregon. Max had cold-called him last
year and Wetzon had stepped in because it appeared Benny was unhappy. Yet he
sat there like a body at rest. The only positive was that he’d gone to talk to
Rivington Ellis and it had been a good first meeting and a better second
meeting.
    “I hate it here, Wetzon,” Benny told
her now. “I didn’t do any of those frigging limited partnerships and I get
tarred with the same brush as the worst of them here.”
    “Benny, you’ve been complaining to me
for months. Now Rivington Ellis wants to write you a check to come to New York and kick the tires. Do it.”
    “I’ll think about it. I had a call
from this guy—another headhunter. I asked him about Rivington Ellis, said I was
heing set up by someone else, and he told me they’re on the block.”
    Wetzon gnashed her teeth. Why did
brokers have to listen to everyone with a story? “Not true, Benny. They just
turned down a German bank who wanted to buy a piece. They want fo stay
independent. Who was the other headhunter?”
    “I don’t know. Tom something or
other.”
    That damn Tom Keegen was out there
poisoning the well, Wetzon thought. She said, “Oh, yes, I know him. He’s a bad
guy. You don’t want to listen to him.”
    “Okay, Wetzon, you know I trust you,”
Benny said. He hung up.
    An infinitesimal tapping came from
above. The flooring was being laid. Incredible progress had been made, or so it
seemed, because they were no longer inundated with dust, grit, and noise. In a
couple of weeks they’d have their new office. The problem was, Wetzon didn’t
care one way or the other. She’d lost her enthusiasm for the business. It
wasn’t fun anymore.
    The upfront deals had virtually
disappeared, the firms bowing to the pressure from the SEC. Many of the firms
had instituted attractive pension plans, and two of Smith and Wetzon’s best
clients had stopped working with headhunters.
    “You’re too expensive for us,” Chip
Constantine, the head of retail for