The Groaning Board

drop you.
    “Fine.” But Rita looked distracted.
As their cab whizzed down Central Park West, she said, “Billy Veeder...”
    Wetzon looked out at the blooming
park. “A business drink.”
    “He’s an attractive man.”
    “Is he?” They were talking female
shorthand, the meaning clear to each of them.
    “You hadn’t noticed?”
    “I noticed he carries a gun.”
    “They never get over their thing
about guns.”
    “What do you mean they?”
    “Didn’t you know?” Rita gave her a
long, sympathetic look. “Before he went to law school and became rich and
glamorous, Billy was a cop.”

Chapter Thirty

     
     
     
    The Andy Warhol pencil
drawing of the wad of dollar bills
that Wetzon and Smith had bought with their first placement check at the
beginning of their partnership was leaning against the wall waiting to be hung.
Wetzon straightened the wire and hung the drawing on the only available wall
space.
    “Partnership, sure,” Wetzon said to
Smith’s desk. “A partnership should be based on trust.”
    The desks were L-shaped, each facing
a huge expanse of window overlooking Forty-ninth Street. In fact, there were
windows everywhere, letting in fabulous light. In the back of the room, windows
looked out on a deck. Stairs led down from the deck to the garden, where tulips
and daffodils were in full bloom. The view was so compelling that Wetzon didn’t
hear footsteps on the stairs.
    “Well, I never expected to see you
this early.” Smith set a vase of flowers on her L, arranged them, stepped back,
tilted her head, then rearranged them.
    “Why not?”
    Smith gave her a knowing smile.
“Migraine, for pity sakes. I wasn’t born yesterday, sweetie pie.”
    Wetzon ignored her. “It was a nice
dinner party.” She watched the lights begin to flare on her telephone,
accompanied by a tremorous ring.
    “Yes, it was, wasn’t it? The minute
Micklynn left and A.T. took over it was perfect.”
    “But Micklynn is the chef. A.T.
doesn’t know anything about cooking. She knows marketing.”
    “Not true, sugar. Not true at all.”
Smith began to pull items from a box on the floor and set them on her desk,
starting with a datebook. “You missed an incident between that dreadful Minnie
Wang and little Ellen.”
    “Wu.”
    “Wu?” Smith raised her head, annoyed.
    “Minnie Wu, that’s her name. Not
Wang.”
    “Whatever. Dreadful is dreadful. She
tried to kill that poor child. She would have ruined my party.”
    “It was Hem’s fault.”
    “Why would it be Hem’s fault? He’s a
brilliant investment banker.”
    “Brilliant he may be, but he thinks
with his dick. He was trying to rape Ellen.”
    “Sweetie pie, I don’t know how you
can say that. You weren’t even there.”
    “But I was—”
    “A.T. told me she and Ellen were
working in the kitchen when Minnie what’s-her-face broke in and tried to
strangle the child. That woman is psychotic; she imagines that Hem is doing it
with other women, any woman. Hem. Can you believe it? He’s such a caring,
lovely man.”
    “Hard to believe. Truly.” Smith
missed her sarcasm entirely. Hem was neither caring nor lovely, and Smith, true
to form, could only see his power and his money and judge him accordingly. She
designed her life and lived it by her own skewed perception of what was real.
There was no point in arguing with her.
    “But, sweetie pie,” Smith continued
in full wheedle, that knowing smile on her face again, “this is not what I want
to talk about. I’m sure you have so much to tell me. I can’t wait to hear.” She
looked around her desk as if she’d just noticed something was missing. “Do we
have coffee?”
    “Yes, sitting ready and waiting in
our private kitchen.” “Well, hurry up and get us some, sugar,” Smith ordered.
“Then I want to hear all about it.” This last came with a stylized shoulder
roll.
    Wetzon took her time pouring coffee
into the mugs. She wiped down the granite counter. When she strolled back she
found no sign of Smith, until she looked out on the deck. Smith had unpacked
the canvas pillows and set them onto two deck chairs. She motioned Wetzon out.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she said. Huge sunglasses covered her eyes.
    “Truly,” Wetzon agreed. She’d be
damned if she’d use Smith’s new favorite word. She handed Smith one of the
mugs.
    “So tell me about it.” Smith settled
into the chair and put her feet up.
    “About what?”
    “Why are you being so coy? Read my
lips. How was he?” It was