The Deadliest Option (37 page)

Laura Lee inspected her. “No one would ever know. What are you goin’ to tell people?”

“That I walked into a door. Or the truth. I don’t want anyone to think Silvestri did it.”

Outside, the heat was horrific, and Manhattan looked like a cement desert. Laura Lee got into a cab and Wetzon strolled over to Broadway. The air was spongy and dense. The West Side was a ghost town. Traffic was sparse, except for City buses, and the only cab she had seen was the one Laura Lee had gotten into.

Standing at Broadway and Eighty-sixth, Wetzon looked downtown. The deserted streets shimmered in the sun like an optical illusion. It must be her eyes. She took off her sunglasses. It wasn’t her eyes. The palm trees on the island between uptown and downtown traffic drooped fronds to the dry earth. Palm trees? Was she mad? She put her glasses on. Another optical illusion.

The Mexican take-out had the air-conditioner on frigid, reviving her. She ordered a chimichanga to go, and waiting, she watched the deft hands of the cook lay out the tortilla, fill it, roll it, and lower it into the hot oil. She wondered if he hit his wife or girlfriend with those hands.

Stop that
, she thought.

He drained the rolled package and fitted it neatly into a foil container, adding refried beans, rice, and salsa, then rolled the foil rim around the cardboard top with enviable expertise, all the while cleaning off the spill around the sides with a clean white towel.

Out on the street again, the sun beat down through the straw of her hat and streams of perspiration trickled down her face, making her nose a slide for her sunglasses. Overhead the sky was blue and cloudless, and twice as uncaring. She felt as if she were on the grill and wondered at what temperature blood boiled.

Upstairs, she dropped her mail and the chimichanga on the kitchen counter and went into the living room. Parking her hat on one of the finials of the slat-backed chair, she stood in front of the air-conditioner, turning, front to back, cooling, back to front, and thought about the pieces of the puzzle. Her bruises throbbed in the temperature change, and she left the chill, aiming her tired body for the bedroom.

At last she lay on her bed, looked at the beams on her ceiling, let her eyes rove over the brass filigree of the ceiling fan, running lazily on low.

“Why,” Wetzon had asked Laura Lee, “would a broker have two accounts with the same number?”

“It might be a back office foul-up.”

“How could that be, in this age of computers?”

“Oh, my dear, it happens more often than you’d think. We’re only as good as the support we get, and with all the cost-cuttin’ goin’ around, you get help that can’t read, write, or comprehend. You get what you pay for.”

“Okay, okay, get off your soapbox, y’all.” Wetzon laughed. “I get your gist. What else could it mean?”

“Well, darlin’, you didn’t hear this from me—but look at those names. They could be phony accounts, phony names, all leadin’ back to the same broker.”

“And that’s illegal—”

“Oh, my, is it ever illegal. And if there’s a lot of tradin’ goin’ on, they can trade in and out of a stock without ever payin’ for it. That’s called kitin’, darlin’, and that’s a no-no. And if it’s an options account, there’s a ton of money to be made if you don’t have to keep the margin requirements.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Darlin’, the rule is that if you’re playin’ options, you must have the money in the account to cover. If you have a whole lot of accounts, you can keep switchin’ from one account to the other and never have to put up the whole—”

“It sounds like an awful lot of stress to me.”

“Listen, Wetzon darlin’, you’d be surprised how many people thrive on stress like this. Put a greedy computer genius with a touch of larceny in his soul into a brokerage situation and, trust me, there’s no tellin’ the number of ways he can find to feather his nest.”

“B
ARF IN A
bag!” Laura Lee shrieked. “He wants to be your
intimate
friend but he’s in love with his
shrink?”

Only five of the girls were left. Laura Lee, Wetzon, Anne, Tobie, and Sylvie. They were flaked out on the sofa and the floor, playing can-you-top-this with stories about dating in New York. Ice clinked in glasses; the sandwiches and cakes were mere crumbs on empty plates. And Tobie had just finished telling about her latest relationship.

“Save me from Wasp men,” Tobie groaned. “They might as well be made of granite. It’s unbelievable how out of touch they are with their feelings. And they love their little drinkies.”

“Amen to that,” Laura Lee, who had been brought up a Southern Baptist, said. “I much prefer Jewish men. They love good food.” She paused until the laughter died down, then said, “And now, Wetzon is goin’ to tell us about Italian men.”

“Oh, do,” the others caroled, all except Anne, who said, “I, for one, am tired of being polite and would like to know if
he
did that to you.”

Wetzon’s hand flew to her damaged face. “No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. I got this from a client, along with an attempt at rape, and I’m feeling—I don’t know—I just didn’t want to spoil today for you.” She swallowed hard.

Laura Lee slipped off the sofa and crouched next to Wetzon, hugging her. “It’s okay, darlin’, that’s what we girls are here for, we’re a support group for each other, even though we don’t get together that often. Right, girls?”

“Right!”

“Now divert us with stories about Italian men,” Sylvie demanded.

They all laughed, and Wetzon, pressing her hand to her bruised cheek, said, “I’m no expert on Italian men. He’s the first.” She smiled, feeling her smile only on one side of her face. “And he’s not the definitive Italian man because he’s a detective, so he hides the Mediterranean emotion. But you know it’s there, always seething under the surface.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she thought,
Why can’t I control all this emotion that keeps washing over me?

“You hear that, girls?” Laura Lee refilled her glass from the pitcher of iced tea on the coffee table. “I think we’re about to lose Wetzon. You’re goin’ to follow Annie into marital bliss.”

“The truth is, I’m no more ready to get married than you are, Laura Lee, although I’m practicing right now.”

Sylvie held up her hand. “I have a story, does anyone want to hear?”

“Oh, goody.”

“Tell.”

“Well,” Sylvie said, “I meet this really attractive guy at a cocktail party for the UJA, and we have this fantastic flirtation. We head right for the Hilton and he takes a room and we get upstairs and start tearing each other’s clothes off, and here I am practically in the buff, and he produces these handcuffs.” She paused and got the effect she wanted.

“Oh, God!”

“Sylvie!”

“Kinky!”

“What happened?”

“I said, I just remembered I have to make a phone call,’ and I grabbed my bag and my clothes and ran. And there I was trying to get dressed and running in the corridor for the elevator, and these two old people are getting off the elevator, and they stare at me like I’m crazy, and I jump on the elevator—and their eyes are popping out and I say, ‘The health club is great, they get you in and out like a shot,’ and the elevator closes.”

“I don’t know, girls, datin’ in New York is like having a toothache,” Laura Lee said, after the laughter had died down.

“The philosopher speaks,” Anne said.

“Then there’s Howard,” Tobie said. “He’s sixty-two and very sweet. He sends flowers to my office the day after we see each other. The guys call it my put-out bouquet.”

“Is he sexy? Some older men are sexy,” Wetzon said, trying to drink iced tea while supine without spilling any down her neck and not succeeding.
Like Alton Pinkus
, she thought. She sat up and blotted the spill with a napkin.

“Do y’hear that?” Laura Lee said.

“Name one besides Paul Newman,” Sylvie said.

“Well, one of them died, Bart Giamatti.” Wetzon waited for all the negative comments to pass, then said, “Felix Rohatyn.”

Groans, laughter.

“I couldn’t lock lips with either of them on a bad day. I much prefer Robbie Robertson,” Laura Lee said.

“Or Harrison Ford,” Anne suggested.

“Not bad.” They were all in agreement for once.

“I must admit to a certain attraction to Tom Stoppard,” Laura Lee said.

“The playwright?” Tobie, who’d been stretched out on the floor, sat up. “I’ve met him. He’s one of those clever, brainy guys.”

“I like brainy guys,” Wetzon said. “Prefer them over brawny ones anytime.”

“I was having an affair with this brainy Englishman—you could never call him a guy—who was an economist for a big bank with a branch here, and he used to fly in once a month.” Anne smiled. “We’d spend the weekend at the Warwick.”

“The Warwick? Get a grip!” Laura Lee interrupted.

Tobie choked on her tea and started coughing. Sylvie clapped her on the back.

“Yes, a bit of all that tacky English stuff—are you all right, Tobie?”

Tobie nodded, gasping and laughing.

“Well, it went on for about a year and then I never heard from him again.”

“Cameron Kendall,” Tobie gasped between coughs and laughter. “What year were you?”

“1988.” Anne looked confused.

“I was ’87.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Now isn’t that just what you’d expect in New York?” Laura Lee said.

“I once was fixed up with a guy,” Wetzon said, “who looked okay and took me out to dinner at the Rainbow Room after the show I was in—I can’t remember which one. Anyway, he kept sending the food back, and I was so ravenous—I never ate before a show—I kept saying, ‘Please, it’s fine, it’s fine, just let me get a bite out of it before you send it back,’ and he kept snapping his fingers at the waiter—with the hand that wasn’t holding the big fat cigar.”

“L.D.C.,” Laura Lee said knowingly.

“L.D.C.?” they all asked.

“Little dick complex.”

“Then there’s this thing I’ve noticed,” Wetzon said, “on Wall Street, the shorter the man, the bigger the ego.”

“The truth is,” Laura Lee said, “men are really a whole other race. They don’t even talk the same language we do.”

“Hold on there, girls, I’m not sorry to give up the toothache.” Anne spoke suddenly, breaking through the laughter.

“I think we should drink to that,” Wetzon said. “Does anyone want champagne?” She rolled herself into a standing position and went into the kitchten. Anne followed her.

“Tell the truth, Wetzon, is your guy battering you?”

“Oh, no. Really.” Wetzon pulled the champagne from the fridge. “I told you the truth; it was a client.”

“Wetzon, I recognize it. Don’t kid me. Charlie did that to me for years. I don’t talk about it, but I got out with the help of people who know how to deal with battered women, and now I’ve got Ed, who’s such a sweetheart. But, Wetzon, listen to me, you don’t have to take it.”

“It’s okay, honest, Anne. Silvestri has been wonderful, and I’m pressing charges against my client.”

Anne patted her back doubtfully and twisted the cork of the champagne. It opened with a loud pop, and the cork shot to the ceiling and dropped back to the floor, leaving a small indentation in the ceiling.

“Come on,” Wetzon said, putting glasses on a tray and carrying them into the living room.

They drank to Anne and each other and called it a day.

“I can’t imagine being married,” Laura Lee said after everyone had gone. “It’s so ... I don’t know ... permanent. You never can have any privacy, there’s always someone around.”

“You have to include someone in all your plans, your decisions.”

“You can’t come and go as you wish.”

“That’s why you like your long-distance relationship with the general.”

“And that’s why you’re livin’ with a man who works funny hours.”

They looked at each other and laughed. “I love my apartment when nobody else is here,” Wetzon said. “I admit that. But it’s really nice to have someone who cares about you.”

“Watch it, darlin’, you’re waverin’.” Laura Lee wagged her finger at Wetzon.

At seven o’clock, everyone was gone and the apartment was hers again. Wetzon went through the living room, picked up a napkin and Dustbusted the crumbs from floor, table, and sofa. She took the empty champagne bottle from the coffee table and brought it into the kitchen. It made a loud thump when she dropped it in the trash bag.

The downstairs intercom buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Package came for you yesterday, Ms. Wetzon. Arlo forgot to tell you.”

“Okay, I’ll come down.”

“It’s too heavy for you to carry. I’ll bring it up. “

“Okay.” She took her finger off the intercom button. What could it be? Since the explosion in the garden, she was leery of packages.

When the doorbell rang, Wetzon opened her door and Sammy, the Sunday handyman, lugging a case of wine, said, “Where do you want it?”

“Right here is fine.” She eyed the package warily. It was a liquor carton and looked harmless enough. “Thanks, Sammy.” She closed the door and probed the envelope on the top of the case. Nothing but a card. No funny wires or strange instruments. The card read,
With best wishes, Douglas Culver.

A fury of major proportions took control of her. She literally saw red and kicked the case of wine, jamming her toes. “Dammit, dammit!” She hopped around massaging her foot. She was incensed. Did he think this would make up to her for what had happened? She had half a mind to send it back to—she bent to look at the label—Liberty Liquors.

Clawing at the corrugated cardboard of the case, she tore a fingernail and swore, roundly cursing out Dougie Culver and Luwisher Brothers. How dare they try to bribe her! She pried the top of the case open with her bread knife, plucked one bottle out and was staring at the label of a really fine California cabernet, William Hill Reserve, 1987, when the phone rang.

Still holding the neck of the bottle, she snapped, “Hello.”

“Wetzon!”

“Who is this?”

“Dwayne.”

“Dwayne?” She’d forgotten all about Ellie’s assistant. Hadn’t he run away, left town? “Where are you? I have to talk to you.”