The Groaning Board

nuts, Wetzon? Go from the
frying pan into the fire? Merrill makes you sign a noncompete paper that says
all your accounts belong to Merrill, and if you leave, they hit you with a
restraining order and sue your cojones off.”
    “How about a really nice regional
firm with some class, a decent payout, and good investment banking?”
    “Call me next Wednesday at five.”
    Wetzon hung up and made a note to
call Keith on next week’s calendar. He would either put her off, blow her off, or actually commit to an appointment.
    Wetzon climbed the stairs. Her head
ached. Her life was “Call me next week”... “I can’t talk now”... “I don’t want
to talk about it...”
    “No! No! That goes there.“ She
heard Smith say in the voice Smith saved for those she called the drones. Smith
was, after all, the Queen. “No! Don’t do that!”
    Wetzon made a U-turn and went back
down the stairs. She couldn’t deal with Smith at this level. She opened the
door to the reception area. Max had arrived and was fielding a call. He pointed
to the phone with an unspoken question.
    Who? she mouthed.
    He wrote on his pink pad of message
slips: Rita Silvestri.
    She shook her head vigorously. Take a
message, she told him silently. When she dosed the door and was back in the
office she and Smith shared, she could hear arguing voices above. Cringing, she
took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. Doors slammed and Smith said, “Well,
really.” Then there was quiet.
    It was an awestruck Wetzon who stood
at the top of the stairs. At the beginning of the renovation, Smith had banned
her from the second floor “because of your negative aura.” Now, for the first
time, she saw the plastered and painted finale: Everything was open except for
the conference room in the back and the elegant black marble bathroom, which
Smith made a point of taking Wetzon through first.
    “You changed your mind about private
offices, I see,” Wetzon said after the grand tour.
    “You said you didn’t care, and I
realized how much I’d miss you, sugar bun.”
    “That’s not the real reason, my
darling partner. Admit it, you’re just so nosy you want to know everything I’m
doing.”
    “Moi?” Smith rounded her eyes in an attempt to look
innocent.
    The furniture was high-tech from
Knoll, very attractive, black and steel, very functional.
    Wetzon sat in her chair. It hugged
her back, made her feel comfortable. “I like this.” The walls were white, the
other themes deep wine and black. A funny sound like a lamb’s bleat erupted
from under the desk. “What’s that?”
    “That’s your private line. I have one
too. NYNEX installed it yesterday, so you’re the only one who has the number.
And you’re the only one who answers it.”
    When the bleat sounded again, Smith
said, “Go ahead.” She had a pleased smirk on her face.
    The phone was attached to the side
panel under her desk. Wetzon picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She expected a friendly
voice, set up perhaps by Smith herself.
    She got, instead, the breather.

Chapter Twenty-Five

     
     
     
    She was a
vision in black when she stepped out of her building. The dress was a scoop-neck, sleeveless
shell that stopped well above her knees. It came with a sheer black coat, the
same length.
    “Cab, Ms. Wetzon?” Tony, the doorman,
asked.
    “No, thanks, Tony. I think I’ll walk.
It’s such a nice night.”
    And it was. The days were
lengthening, the air was soften-ing. She walked toward Columbus. Soon enough it
would be dark.
    Her thoughts roiled. This wasn’t like
the last time she and Silvestri separated. That time she’d been devastated
Now...? What did she really feel after all the anger and hurt burned away?
Relief. Maybe their relationship had run itself out.
    “Leslie—” A car going in the opposite
direction had pulled up and double-parked a few paces ahead of her. “Leslie?”
    Metzger reached across the seat and
opened the car door.
    “Artie?’ She came to the door and
peered in at him. He looked exhausted, more somber than usual.
    “Where are you off to this time of
night?”
    “Smith’s giving a dinner party.”
    “Come on, I’ll ride you over. East Side, right?”
    She climbed in and closed the door.
“East Seventy-seventh, off Second.”
    “Put on your seat belt.” He hadn’t
moved the car. “You and Silvestri have split up?”
    “Seems we have. He wanted out, and
maybe he was right. It has something to do with Sheila.”
    “Sheila?” Metzger seemed