The Groaning Board

In the other half,
Max sat looking out on an extended reception area.
    “Will you take a call from one of our
principals, Leslie Wetzon?” Max said into the phone as she came around to his
side. “Good. What’s the best time for you?”
    God, he was good, Wetzon thought. And
to think Smith had not wanted to hire him.
    When Smith reappeared with three
bulging shopping bags, Wetzon was eating the leftover bagel and whitefish
salad, watching the garden grow. She picked up her lunch and came back inside.
“What did you buy?”
    “Couple of linen dresses, silk pants,
a blazer, lingerie. I opened my closet this morning and saw I had absolutely
nothing to wear for the summer. Oh, and I bought you a little something because
it’s nothing you would buy for yourself.” She rummaged through two of the bags,
scattering smaller bags over the floor, finally finding what she was looking
for in the third. “Here.” She thrust it at Wetzon.
    “For me? Really? What is it?”
    “Open it. I know you can use the
pick-me-up, baby-cakes.” She grinned at Wetzon.
    Wetzon opened the package and took
out the item. “What the hell is this? It looks like a torture contraption.
Probably designed by a man.”
    “It’s the Wonderbra. They even make
it in your size. It’ll do wonders for your bosoms. Bill likes bosoms.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Oh, what do you know? You’re in your
own world all the time. You are so naive. Just try it next time and you’ll see
his reaction.”
    Wetzon waved the bra at Smith. “Don’t
you think this is a little ludicrous? We are coming to the end of the twentieth
century and bright successful women are still pushing their tits in men’s
faces.”
    “Some things never change, sweetie
pie, and you might as well live with it,” Smith said pityingly.
    Phone for you, Wetzon,” Max announced
on the intercom. “Detective Metzger.”
    She picked up the phone. “Artie?”
    Metzger said, “The call came from a
bank of phones at Saks.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

     
     
    The call came
in on her private line. It rang four times before Wetzon answered with a cautious “Yes?”
    “Is this Leslie Wetzon?” A tight
voice, a hand-over-the-mouthpiece voice. Certainly not Smith, who had left a
good half hour ago.
    “Who’s calling, please?” She’d give
nothing away.
    “A. T. Barron.”
    “Oh, A.T., I didn’t recognize your
voice.” Relief flooded over her, such relief that she could have kissed A.T.
had she been there. And A.T. was the most unkissable of women.
    “Leslie, can you see your way clear
to coming up here right now? Micklynn insists she must see you. She won’t come
downstairs and we’re taping the first show in two hours. I can’t have this.”
    Promising A.T. she’d come, Wetzon
packed up her briefcase, hooked her purse over her shoulder. As she started
down the stairs, she thought she heard a file drawer roll shut. But Darlene was
talking on the phone.
    “You’d be making a terrible mistake
if you went there, Charley,” Darlene said. She fluttered her fingers at Wetzon.
    Wetzon, the phony, fluttered fingers
back. Just like Mort Hornberg’s kissy-poo with his lips. At first, she’d
thought she would come to like Darlene, but now she knew it wasn’t going to happen.
“I have an appointment,” Wetzon mouthed.
    “Really?” Darlene put her hand over
the mouthpiece. “Have a good time. Don’t worry about anything here.”
    That sounded ominous. Wetzon went
around the partition to Max. He was writing down the names of stockbrokers
someone on the other end of the line was giving him. He gave Wetzon the
thumbs-up sign. He’d been the cold caller on ten placements since January; he’d
make the first call, do the first interview, then Wetzon would set up the
appointments, do the follow-ups, and close them.
    Darlene had made only four in the
same amount of time, but all were substantial; all had grosses of between
three-quarters of a mil and one point five mil, billing out a nice piece of
change for both Darlene and Smith and Wetzon.
     
    In the cab up to The Groaning Board,
Wetzon gave herself permission to think about what Metzger had said. That the
breather had called her from a pay phone at Saks.
    Smith had been at Saks. Did that mean
Smith was making the phone calls? What could be her purpose? Money? Smith’s
purpose was always money. To make Wetzon more pliable about taking the company
public? No. If it turned out it was Smith who was making the calls,