The Groaning Board

BARRON-WU.
    Wetzon said, “Sounds like something
from ancient China. Barron Wu, the cunning minister of an evil empire.”
    “Shshsh,” Laura Lee cautioned. “The
line is open.” She spoke into the speaker, announcing their arrival. A buzzer
released the door, and another released the elevator a short way down a hall.
    The elevator was ancient, open
grillwork and a domed, grilled ceiling; it traveled extra slowly. They rode up
to the fifth floor surrounded by music.
    “It’s live,” Laura Lee said. “Hem
hired a band and he’s got Tony Bennett singing.”
    “Let me guess. Tony is an old friend
and he’s doing it as a favor?”
    “No, Hem’s a corporate raider. He can
afford to hire the likes of Tony Bennett. Don’t be so nervous.”
    “I’m not nervous.”
    “Well, don’t be.”
    “All right, I’m nervous. It’s like an
assignation. Bill Vee-der wants me here, so I’m here. In my Wonderbra too,” she
added. “The damn thing is so uncomfortable. It itches and pinches and I feel as
if I’m strangling, but here I am all pushed up, with cleavage, no less.”
    Laura Lee laughed. “I dreamed I was
investigatin’ a murder in my uplift bra.”
    “Go ahead, laugh, but I’m going to
have to take it off. It’s driving me nuts. This isn’t me. I’m a leotard person,
for godsakes.” Still, Wetzon thought as she stepped off the elevator behind
Laura Lee, it was no pretense that she was looking into the murder of Sheila
Gelber.
    Two pumped-up security guards stood
on either side of the elevator like palace guards.
    A sea of humanity made the room seem
to undulate. “I hate crowds,” Wetzon grumbled, knowing her space was about to
be violated.
    “Look who’s here, Min.” Hem could be
heard but not seen. A moment later, he came rushing through the maze to bestow
a big kiss on Laura Lee’s lips. “You girls look absolutely gorgeous. Don’t
they, Min?” He didn’t even wait for an answer, because he was too busy zeroing
in on Wetzon.
    Wetzon turned away sharply and tucked
her hand into the arm of the nearest man, a rotund individual with an
ill-fitting toop. “So nice to see you again,” she gushed, avoiding the beady
eyes of Minnie Wu.
    “Wait’ll you see who we have as a
bartender,” Wetzon heard Hem tell Laura Lee. “Bruce Willis’ brother. I swear.”
    “What are you drinking, my dear?” the
rotund man said, totally charmed by Wetzon’s cleavage.
    “Amstel Light.” She looked around and
didn’t see anyone she knew. Smoke floated high up under the lights.
    “Oh, I like this girl.” The man spoke
to a sycophantic buddy, whose claim to fame appeared to be a wax-tipped
handlebar mustache. “Get the doll a drink, will you, Hy? I don’t want to lose
her.” He’d imprisoned Wetzon’s hand in the crook of his arm and was petting it.
    But the doll lost herself as soon as
the next surge of guests pushed through. Wetzon saw Hy carrying her Amstel and
snatched it from him. “Thanks ever so,” she said.
    Hy’s “Where’s Sheldon?” disappeared
behind her. She took a swig of beer. Where was the food? Waiters were cruising
around with vast trays. She followed one.
    Wetzon hated comments on her height:
“you’re so petite,” was her most unfavorite, then “you’re a cute little thing,”
then “little package.” And there was the politically correct “vertically
challenged.” Being short could be a damn nuisance. On Wall Street it meant she
got stepped on in elevators. Bob Fosse, the late choreographer, had preferred
his dancers tall. Alas.
    But short came in handy right now. No
one noticed her amid the svelte, pathetically thin women talking to men of varying
heights, all taller than Wetzon. She was a high-speed bike among Buicks. She
reached a hand up and slipped something off a tray as the waiter went by.
Chicken liver, wrapped in bacon. Very good. Another tray held steamed shrimp;
another, small slices of pizza with a chewy crust. Could a short person commit
a murder in this crowd and get away with it?
    “Darling,” someone yelled, but not at
her. It was like being invisible. Invisible Leslie Wetzon. Now there was
something to conjure with.
    The music was pop and soft rock.
People shifted from foot to foot, spilled drinks on the hardwood floor, oops,
dropped an hors d’oeuvre. Well, never mind, grind it into the floor. Moving
through the crowd, Wetzon caught sight now and then of A.T. At some point
Wetzon knew she’d have to speak to her, but not yet.
    She could