The Groaning Board

Marley Straus, had told Wetzon. “Our
managers will have to do their own recruiting.”
    “Chip,” Wetzon had said, “I wish you
good luck.” Most managers had neither the time nor the talent to recruit. They
tripped over their own egos.
    Chip. Why did so many of these men in
finance carry their little-boy names into adulthood with them? She knew four
Buzzes, two Chips, five Chucks, two Spikes, one Buck, four Buddys, four Sonnys,
one Fuzzy, three Skips.
    Skip to m’lou, m’darlin’.
    Smith’s hiss yanked Wetzon out of her
reverie. “What’s the matter?”
    “Everything. Nothing is working out
right,” Smith muttered. She was staring down at her cards.
    Max knocked, then stuck his head in
the door. “Phone call for you, Wetzon.”
    “Who is it, Max?”
    “The King of Cups is reversed,” Smith
said.
    Max squinted at Smith, utterly
confused.
    “What does that mean?” Wetzon asked
Smith. “Who did you say it was, Max?”
    “He said it was confidential,” Max
said. “He has a funny voice. Wheezy.”
    “Confidential, what else?” Wetzon
picked up the phone. “Leslie Wetzon.” No one responded, but the line was open.
Someone was there. She could hear him breathing. She slammed the phone down.
    “It means,” Smith said, “that someone
is not what he seems to be.”
    “Oh, sure.”
    Smith turned on her, very upset. “You
may make a joke of this, but I wouldn’t. I never joke about the Tarot. He’s
dangerous.”
    “And the Tarot never lies.”
    “That’s right.”
    “And this King of Cups... reversed...
is coming into our lives?”
    Smith sighed. “He’s already here.”

Chapter Fifteen

     
     
     
    MAY
     
    “Birdie, you
are coming tomorrow?” Carlos had to shout over musical underscoring. As if he were in a rehearsal
studio.
    “Where?” Wetzon bit down on a carrot
stick, her late-afternoon snack.
    “Wait a minute. Guys, can you keep it
down for a minute?” The music receded somewhat. “What did you say?”
    “I said, where am I coming tomorrow?”
    “The backers’ audition. Don’t tell me
you need a special invitation.”
    “I think it might help.”
    “The Barracuda... I’ll be right
there,” he called. “Give me a second.”
    “I can hear you’re very busy.
Tomorrow, you say? I think I can make time for you in my busy schedule. Can I
have the specifics, please?”
    “Excuse me, Miss Priss. The
Dramatists Guild penthouse in the Sardi Building. Five.”
    Wetzon laughed and cradled the
receiver. What had he started to say about Smith? Well, never mind. Her brush
with the breather slipped back into her consciousness, but only for a moment.
He had not called again. Whatever it was, she would have none of it. It was
nonsense, didn’t mean anything.
    Yet when the phone rang, she was
distinctly aware that she was alone. Smith had left in midafternoon for a
facial. Max had completed his hours. And Darlene was at home playing nursie to
her Vietnamese potbellied pig.
    The phone rang again. She answered,
“Smith and Wetzon.”
    “Wetzon! I’m glad I got you and not
that snooty partner of yours.”
    “Roy Weissberg!” She’d recognized his
voice and the tinny delivery, along with the sounds of ongoing traffic. Roy was the only manager who consistently called her from his car. “What can I do for you?”
    “Well, we’re getting a little
pressure here from Division to find qualified women to stick into management
development.”
    Oh, sure, Wetzon thought. Irwin
Thornton, head of training, was a holdover from the sixties. “Roy, do you
honestly think Irwin can work with women?”
    “Irwin can’t work with anybody.”
    “So what are we doing?”
    “You gotta find me some broads,
Wetzon. It’s coming down from Division.”
    “Broads, Roy?”
    “Come on, Wetzon. You know I’m
kidding.”
    “Yeah, I know,” she said. “The women I can show you are probably more qualified than half the men in Division.“
    “That’ll get them off my back.”
    That probably also means, Wetzon
thought as she hung UP. that Irwin Thornton is history. “That’s it,” she said out
loud. “We’re outa here.”
    She put on her coat and switched the
answering machine to “answer,” then cleared the tape of messages. When the
phone rang, she let the machine get it.
    “Leslie, I’m sorry I missed you, but
I've been in court all day —”
    She picked up the phone as if she’d
been waiting for the call. What the hell was the matter with her? “Hello, Bill,
I was just leaving