The Groaning Board

It made
Wetzon crazy when anyone said that, especially Smith. “When will you next deign
to grace our office with your presence?”
    “Tomorrow, of course. Don’t you
remember? The new furniture is coming.” She gave Wetzon a sharp look. “I told you
last week to keep tomorrow clear. What’s wrong with your memory?”
    “Gosh, I seem to have lost it
somewhere.” Had she? Or was she just tuning out? She had no memory of Smith
having told her the furniture was being delivered tomorrow. “I’m beat. I’m
going home.”
    “Tell Dick Tracy to give you a
massage,” Smith said. “Dick Tracy and Tess Trueheart have split.”
    Smith practically exploded with joy.
“So that’s it! Well, sweetie pie, congratulations. You are well rid of him. I
am absolutely thrilled for you... and for me. We must celebrate. It used to be
so much fun when we were both detached at the same time.”
    “Detached?”
    “Xenia, darling, coming?” Mort’s
voice. He had a slim young man, who had gathered up all the printed material on Softly, in tow.
    “Just a minute, sugar,” Smith called.
“I have to powder my nose.”
    Wetzon went down in the elevator
suddenly sorry she hadn’t gone to dinner with Carlos and Arthur and sobbed on
their loyal shoulders. After all, she’d arranged with Albert, the handyman, to
feed Izz before he went home. There was nothing calling her home.
    What to do? Maybe a slice and a
movie. She stood on the street in front of Sardi’s looking for a cab.
    “You look as if you could use a
drink.” Micklynn Devora’s breath was warm and boozy.
    “After I’ve eaten something. On the
other hand, maybe a whole lot sooner.” Wetzon peered into Sardi’s. The bar was
too crowded.
    “I have a suggestion, then. What are
you doing this evening?”
    “Going home?”
    “I don’t think so. You are coming up
to my place. I have a lovely wine. Think of it as a favor to me. I can use the
company. I’ll make us dinner. Come— Oh, there’s a cab!” Micklynn was halfway
down the block holding the yellow door for two people just stepping out. “Come
on, Leslie,” she called.
    Wetzon thought, why not? Why the hell
not? She had nothing to do but brood, and she would get a splendid dinner out
of it. She got into the cab after Micklynn.
    “Nice score,” Micklynn said. She told
the driver her address and sat back, giving Wetzon her full attention.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Your partner is a piece of work.”
    “Yes, she is.”
    “So is mine.” The cab squeezed onto Eighth Avenue and immediately got caught in rush-hour traffic; “We have something in common,
then.”
    “Do we?”
    Micklynn sighed, changed directions.
“I saw you in the Hotshot revival. Carlos got me tickets. You were
wonderful.
    “Thank you.”
    “Carlos tells me you’re on Wall
Street. Maybe you can help me understand something.”
    So that’s what this is all about.
“What?”
    Why in the world would I want to take
my company public?”
    “To cash in, then cash out.”
    “But I don’t want to cash out. It’s
my life. I don’t want investors telling me how they think I should make a sweet
potato casserole, or that the balsamic vinegar I use is too expensive.”
    “If you go public with The Groaning
Board, it won’t be yours anymore, but you’ll be rich.”
    Rich? That’s a laugh.’ A vein pulsed
in Micklynn’s forehead. “I’d rather be dead.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

     
     
     
    Micklynn’s
duplex above The Groaning Board was loft- like on its first floor. The kitchen was modern
and efficient looking with a lot of stainless steel, a room made warm by
clutter. A cook’s kitchen, it opened to a huge, equally cluttered dining-living
room. Between the kitchen and the dining area was a broad counter, topped with
black granite. Four high stools were placed in front of the counter, backs to
the dining area.
    The jumble consisted primarily of
collections of antique cooking utensils. They hung from walls, lay on tables,
sat on the floor. Paintings and etchings of food and feasting, both antique and
contemporary, filled every available wall space.
    Wetzon paused in front of an Andy
Warhol Campbell soup can. The painting was personally inscribed to Micklynn
from the artist himself.
    “We have a Warhol in our office, on a
subject slightly more suitable to us,” Wetzon said. “Ours is a thick roll of
dollar bills.”
    “It was a joke,” Micklynn said. “Andy
knew I would die before I used Campbell soup.” She took Wetzon’s