The Groaning Board

infected by the Wall Street virus—money for money’s sake. It all
came crashing down in ’87 and it will again. Look at this explosion in IPOs.
It’s insane.”
    “It’s capitalism. Without IPOs, you
have no start-up companies. The creative forces driving all these young
industries need the bucks to go forward. It also goes for old-line companies
who want to restructure. It’s vital to our economy.”
    “I guess I still have glitter dust
from the theatre under my feet. Still, I understand Micklynn’s reluctance. I
don’t think I’d be too happy if Smith were intent on taking us public.” Veeder
was stone quiet. His hands stopped working Izz’s ears.
    “She’s already broached the subject
with you?” Wetzon waited for a response. She didn’t get one. “Goddammit, Bill
Veeder!” She stood up. “And don’t give me any of that client-attorney privilege
shit. This is my life too. Smith and I are partners.”
    He set Izz aside and stood. “It was a
social consult, Leslie. I told her it wouldn’t work. It’s the high-tech,
biotech, and food services that are flying now. Xenia told me you knew all
about it.”
    “Oh, please—”
    “I’m very fond of Xenia.”
    “Oh, I admit I have my moments. This
does not happen to be one of them.” She walked to the door and waited for him,
arms folded. Izz jumped off the sofa and followed. “Well, now, don’t kill the
messenger.”
    “I wouldn’t. Because I might need a
criminal defense attorney after I kill my partner.”
    “Then I’m afraid I’d be the wrong man
for you, Leslie.“
    “Why?”
    He caught her elbows before she could
unfold her arms and pulled her to him. She felt his breath on her face, the
thumping of his heart, or was it hers?
    Something familiar nudged her cheek,
reminding her instantly of Silvestri.
    Bill Veeder was carrying.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

     
     
     
    In spite of
her anger at Smith, at Silvestri, and her confusion about Bill Veeder, Wetzon slept late
on Sunday. The sleep of the righteous, or something like that. She did her
barre work, walked Izz, and went back to bed with the Times, trying not
to think about Silvestri, the breather, or Veeder. She went to bed early that
night and would have made it to eight hours had not Rita Silvestri called her
at 6 A.M.
    “Breakfast, eight o’clock, Barney
Greengrass,” Rita said. Before Wetzon could respond, Rita disconnected.
    “Be there.” Wetzon finished the
sentence and got into the shower.
    She’d completed less than ten minutes
of barre work when her downstairs buzzer sounded. Damn, Rita was pushy. The
least she could do was let Wetzon have a couple of hours to herself before...
She had half a mind not to respond. But she did.
    “Yes?”
    “Miss Mickey coming up,” the doorman
said.
    “Damnation,” she told Izz, who was
already dancing attendance at the door, “it’s like I’m giving therapy by the
hour here.” She opened the door. Micklynn was getting off the elevator. She was
decked out in her embroidered shmattes, her hair in its long braid. Her face
looked ravaged.
    “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but at
least I didn’t wake you.” She glanced at Izz without really seeing the dog.
“I’ve been up all night going over and over everything.”
    “Come in and sit down, Micklynn.”
Wetzon led her inside. She reeked of gin. “Can I get you some orange juice?“
    “The kitchen,” Micklynn said. “Let’s
go to the kitchen. I’m more comfortable in kitchens.”
    Wetzon settled Micklynn on one of the
high stools and gave her a glass of orange juice. “How about a bagel or
coffee?”
    “How about some gin?”
    Wetzon shrugged and opened the
fridge. “I only have vodka.” She put the bottle of Absolut on the counter, and
Micklynn unscrewed the cap and gave her orange juice a hefty dollop. “Maybe...”
    “Don’t say it, Leslie.”
    “I have an appointment at eight,
Micklynn.”
    “I’ll make it quick. I’ve been
thinking about this since we had dinner together. Carlos told me you sometimes
do consulting, and I want to hire you. I have to hire you.” She drank
the orange juice as if it were water.
    “I don’t understand, Micklynn.”
Wetzon looked at the vodka. Maybe she should take a shot. Maybe then she would
understand all the insane things that were going on around her.
    “I want to hire you to find out how
Sheila died.”
    “But you know all that.”
    “I want you to find who killed her.”
    “The police will do that.”
    “Oh, I