The Groaning Board

phone to her ear, her palm over the receiver.
Smith seemed very preoccupied this morning. “It’s always about money, isn’t it,
Smith?”
    “Of course,” Smith mouthed
automatically.
    Money, yes. Get cracking, kid, Wetzon
told herself. She picked up the phone and called Keith Pullman. “Well, hello,
there, Keith.”
    “Next Tuesday, Wetzon. I promise.
Call me next Tuesday at three o’clock sharp.”
    She smacked down the phone. “Fuck
you, Keith, and your call-me-next-whatever. One more time and you’re history.”
A look of absolute horror swept across Smith’s face. “And what’s the matter
with you?” she asked Smith.
    Smith cradled the receiver very
carefully. “She’s giving phone sex.”
    “Who?” Wetzon was baffled.
    “What are we going to do?”
    “What does it have to do with us?”
    “It has everything to do with us.
She’s using our phones to do it.”
    “Wait a minute, Smith, are we talking
about Darlene?“
    “Who else?”
    “And you’re listening to her
do it? You’re as bad as she is.“
    “She has to go.”
    “Maybe it’s a misunderstanding,
Smith. She’d be stupid to use our phone. We ought to have proof. If we fire
her, she might sue us for wrongful termination.”
    “Okay. I’m going to buy a little
recording device and get her on tape. We can’t have someone like that working
for us.“
    “I have to admit I’ve never liked
her, but she’s brought in a lot of money.”
    “Not lately, or haven’t you noticed,
sugar?”
    “It’s been slow.”
    “You’re still making placements.”
    “Not in abundance. Still, I won’t be
unhappy to see her go, and that’s being honest, Smith. There’s always been
something odd about her. But next time I want to be included in the hiring
process.”
    To which Smith replied with her
famous last words: “Of course, babycakes.”
     
    Having had only about three and a
half hours of sleep the previous night, Wetzon was dragging by the time she
arrived at Bill Veeder’s office for the meeting with the Cameron family. She’d
washed her face and redone her makeup before she left the office, but the heat
and sleep deprivation were taking their toll.
    Veeder, in spite of his optimistic
prediction, was still in court.
    “He’s running a little late,” Mrs.
Copeland said. “He said you’re to wait in his office. Would you like something
cold to drink?”
    “Iced tea, no sugar, lots of lemon.”
Wetzon walked down the hallway to Bill’s office, thinking maybe she could catch
a nap on his sofa.
    The office was cool and serene. No
papers were on the desk. She sat down on the sofa. The Hispanic man she’d seen
before brought her a tall glass of iced tea and left. The sofa was very soft.
Much as she’d like the nap, it wouldn’t do if she was groggy during the
meeting. She stood and walked to the window, looking down at Rockefeller Center. Every summer the skating rink became an outdoor café full of greenery and
umbrellaed tables.
    “Oh, excuse me,” a voice said.
    Wetzon turned. A small, gray-haired
woman had come into the room. She was carrying several manila folders.
    “I’m Carolyn, Mr. Veeder’s
secretary,” the woman said.
    Wetzon smiled. “I’m Leslie Wetzon.”
They had spoken on the phone but had never met. “I’m here for the Cameron
meeting.”
    “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
Carolyn shook Wetzon’s hand. “Bill’s on his way. I just wanted to leave these
papers for him. The Camerons haven’t arrived yet.” She set the folders on
Veeder’s desk and left the room.
    Wetzon sat down on the sofa again and
took a sip of tea. The glass was sweating profusely onto the coffee table. She
wiped up the flood with her napkin. What a mess. She looked in her purse. Only
a few tissues left. Maybe Bill had some in his desk. She got up and walked over
to the desk. The folders Carolyn had left were in a neat pile. Staring at the
folders, Wetzon told herself: Remember what you said to Smith.
    But I’m here, she thought. No one
will ever know I’ve taken a peek. The top folder was labeled: The Groaning
Board IPO. Nothing new there. She moved it slightly with the tip of her
finger so she could look at the label of the next folder. Rubenstein, it
said. She opened it and saw that Bill had taken the recent case that had been
in the news, the one of the husband who’d murdered his wife and her lover,
another woman.
    She clicked her tongue against her
teeth. Keep your comments to yourself, she thought.
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