The Groaning Board

said. “I’d just done my six miles when I spotted you near the
Delacorte and backtracked. I’ve been meaning to call
    »
    you.
    “Me? Why?”
    Bill Veeder had been Richard
Hartmann’s law partner. Hartmann, the Mafia lawyer and Smith’s late great
lover, had been assassinated by the very people he represented when it became
known he was naming names. Whether Veeder was dirty too, Wetzon didn’t know and
didn’t much care, though there was no denying he was a very attractive man.
    “I thought we’d have dinner one night
and discuss it,” he said.
    “Discuss what?”
    “A business proposition. I understand
the Wall Street headhunting business has slowed down considerably.”
    A little warning bell pinged in
Wetzon’s brain. Now who could possibly have told him that? Smith, of course.
She had undoubtedly kept in touch after Hartmann’s murder.
    “Oh? A business proposition, huh?”
Wetzon dug into her briefcase for her card, found it, and held it out to him.
    “No need.” Veeder didn’t take the
card. “I know where to find you.” He gave her a meaningful look, the essence of
which she didn’t understand, then turned and jogged off.
    Wetzon watched him for a minute,
trying to shake off his presence, before she continued her walk. She hated the
way he made her feel. Her sometime lover, NYPD Detective Silvestri, Was
full-time these days, and she was happy.
    Then why was she attracted to Bill
Veeder?
    Because he was dangerous, she told
herself. No question about it. Could she have a flirtation with him and emerge
unscathed? Never.
    She left the Park near the Museum of Natural History and walked uptown. What was she thinking of? It was a perfectly
innocent encounter, at the end of—what had he said? A six-mile run. He wanted
to talk business.
    Right.
    Right, a little snide voice nudged
her. An innocent encounter, nothing else, after a six-mile run. And not a drop
of sweat on him.

Chapter Five

     
     
     
    Carlos was
pissed. He was pacing Wetzon’s living room, seething, while Izz, Wetzon’s Maltese, sat on
the sofa turning her head back and forth, watching him as if he were a tennis
match.
    “Birdie,” Carlos said, “I swear to
God I will kill Mort Hornberg before I check out.” Anger made the skin around
his dark eyes taut. Even the diamond stud in his left earlobe glowered.
    “Oh, were you thinking of leaving any
time soon?” Wetzon asked. She handed him a beer. He had burst in on her ten
minutes earlier and had yet to tell her why he was so upset.
    “Yeah, well, foolish me, I thought I
was doing the movie of Hotshot, but our friend Mort aced me out.”
    “The shit. I’m sorry. Didn’t you have
doing the movie in your contract?”
    “If you remember, Mort and I shared
the same agent at the time. Joel said he couldn’t get it in writing for me, but
Mort agreed to give me first refusal.”
    “On Wall Street these days verbal
agreements aren’t worth the breath it takes to make a promise. It’s everybody
out for himself and protecting his ass. Oops, that sounds just like Broadway.”
    Carlos shook his finger at Wetzon.
“Now, Birdie, there are still some of us around the theatre who keep our word.“
    “And then there’s Mort Hornberg.”
    “Didn’t want to share billing. That’s
what it’s about. My reviews were too good. They hired someone named Orson
Tree.”
    “Orson Tree? Never heard of him. Are
you sure he’s a choreographer?”
    “The only thing I’m sure about is
that this Tree person has become Poppy Hornberg’s new best friend.”
    “Ah. Explains all.”
    “Yeah.” Carlos plopped down on the
sofa next to Izz, who climbed into his lap and smothered him with kisses. “I
really wanted this, Birdie.”
    “I know. It’s despicable of Mort. You
will never work with him again.”
    “Birdie...“ He slitted his eyes at
her and cocked his head.
    “But you will.”
    “Birdie!”
    “Because all you theatre people are
such whores.“
    “Ouch,” Carlos groaned. “But for the
love of the work, Dear Heart, for stardom. Not for money, like you Wall Street
types. Cheers.” He raised the beer bottle to her and she raised hers to him.
They both drank. “Where’s your copper tonight?” Carlos asked.
    “On a case.”
    “We have tickets for the Joyce. Mark
Morris. I can try to get another seat.”
    Wetzon shook her head. “I’ve been up
since six, had a breakfast at seven, a meeting at eight, then spent the
afternoon with Smith at The Groaning Board. I’d konk