The Groaning Board

past the Shakespeare theater. Why?”
    “Why? I can’t believe you’re asking
me that. The Park is so dangerous. What if you disappeared on your way to the West Side?”
    “Oh, pu-leeze,” Wetzon said.
    It was still light and the air along Fifth Avenue emanating from the depths of the Park was fragrant with the scent of dogwood.
The magnolia buds were swelling; clumps of forsythia streaked the landscape
with gold and the lilacs were just starting to bloom. In the spring Central Park dressed to kill.
    All of which in a few short days
would lead to itchy, runny eyes and sneezing. But match allergies against
spring in New York... no contest.
    On the splendid steps of the Metropolitan Museum, crowds of young—and not so young—people sat, ate, talked, read,
waited for dates, friends, or just basked in the warm sunlight.
    Taking the path behind the museum,
Wetzon turned into the Park and headed downslope, veering to the left and then
circling the ball fields. Amateur teams from assorted leagues were playing, and
the smack of bat hitting ball seemed the perfect invitation to spring in the
City.
    Babes were all sitting in their high
chairs by this time and those ubiquitous foldaway strollers were conspicuously
absent; the Park belonged to the joggers, cyclists, and roller-bladers, and
those like Wetzon who walked through Central Park on the way home, pretending
it was exercise when it was really balm for the soul.
    New York women were exercise-obsessed. Thin wasn’t
enough; thin and muscular was it. Which is why fitness shoes over white socks
over panty hose was de rigueur. Olive Oyl feet all over town. Oh, yes.
    Wetzon wasn’t in her Reeboks today,
and although she wore only one-inch heels, her feet began to protest. It was a
legacy from her years as a dancer. Dancers, present and past, ex and otherwise,
always had a host of foot problems.
    When she came to the Delacorte
Theater, where free Shakespeare was performed all summer, every summer, thanks
to the late Joe Papp’s obstinate lobbying, she sat on a park bench. Slipping
off her shoes to massage her feet, she thought about the afternoon.
    What was there about Smith that
attracted her to crazy people—and vice versa? Like those bacteria that are
scattered over an oil spill. Wetzon had felt it the minute they’d walked into
The Groaning Board. Gregory, who seemed to be in charge of the shop, was
flyaway gay, with his touch of pink lipstick, blue eye shadow, and false
eyelashes. He had “the voice-gene,” as her friend Carlos would say. The other
person behind the counter when she and Smith had arrived had been pretty little
Ellen, the girl on the suitcase.
    “Crazies,” Wetzon said aloud,
slipping her feet into her shoes, letting a man in an automated wheelchair whir
past her before she got up.
    He was talking on a cellular phone.
“The Pacific Rim,” he said. “Emerging... there are several that meet my
criteria.” From a wheelchair, no less, and in the middle of Central Park.
    As she walked westward again,
Wetzon’s mind moved to the search she and Smith were doing for Bernard’s Bank.
A multilingual individual with a private banking background as well as some
retail sales from the brokerage side to cover Latin America. Specifically Brazil and Argentina. The bank wanted the person to work from New York. She actually had found four
people who fit the specs, but all were in Miami and refused to come back to New York. Getting to Latin America from Miami made for an easier lifestyle.
    Dusk was settling over the Park now.
Wetzon switched her heavy bag to her other shoulder and began to fast-walk. It
was then she noticed that someone was keeping pace with her.
    Don’t make eye contact, she warned
herself, wishing her heels would sprout wings.
    Still, there were plenty of people
about—the dog walkers and joggers—so not to worry. Then the person spoke.
    “Leslie Wetzon,” he said.
    She stopped and looked at him. He
wore running shoes, shorts, and a clean white V-necked tee, from which white
chest hairs protruded.
    “I thought it was you,” he said.
    “Have you been following me?”
    Bill Veeder laughed, and the lines
around his eyes creased and multiplied. That might have made him ugly, or even
frightening, but it did not. In laughter, his features softened, became more
youthful. Yet everything about him was cold. Blue eyes like a winter sky. Hair
almost white. Tall, with the lean, hard body of a runner. “I suppose you might
say that,” he