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Anderson said. “My office is in the Chanin Building on Forty-second and Lex.”
    “No thanks, wrong direction. My office is at Forty-ninth, off Second.”
    Diantha Anderson nodded. “Well, nice to meet you, Leslie. Let’s have a drink sometime and talk shop.”
    “I’d like that,” Wetzon said. “I’ll call you.”
    They shook gloved hands and parted on Fifth Avenue, where Diantha Anderson got into a cab and Wetzon, brushing off the dry snow from her coat, strode off eastward to her office.

11.
    W ETZON LOVED WALKING in the snow, especially this soft, white powder that floated down, noncommittally dusting her face and clothing and floating elsewhere whenever she stopped to shake herself off.
    The wind had quieted somewhat. Traffic was light, as if people had heard the weather report and thought better about coming into the city. Uptown on Park Avenue, the trees on the islands in the middle were already etched in white. Snowflakes stuck to Wetzon’s eyelashes, rested on her lips and cheeks, moisturizing, cleansing.
    New York is truly beautiful in its first meeting with snow, almost on best behavior. But, as they get acquainted, the good manners of both wear off, and they become dirty, icy, lumpy, and dangerous. Ugly. Just like people , Wetzon thought. And then reprimanded herself. Hey, hey, why so cynical all of a sudden, kiddo?
    “Hi, Kate, hi, Steve,” she said aloud, saluting with her right hand, as she passed Hepburn’s house, and then Sondheim’s standing next to each other on Forty-ninth Street. The street was inordinately quiet. Snow muffled all sounds, and no one was out except the crazies. “Wow!” she said out loud again, luxuriating in the wonderful feeling of privacy that comes only with walking on a New York City street in the midst of a snowstorm. The stillness was positively lush. Spoken words emerged heavy and thick, not straying far from the speaker.
    She looked around behind her. Some distance away was the lone figure of a man in a trench coat, carrying an umbrella. As she watched, he proceeded to fold and unfold it in a vain effort to shake off the accumulated snow.
    On Second Avenue, traffic moved downtown at a snail’s pace as the blanket of snow thickened. Horns blew like foghorns, more in warning than anger, which was usually why New York drivers pressed horns.
    She sighed. It would only get worse as the day progressed.
    She stamped the snow from her boots and whirled around, careful not to lose her footing, to remove the rest of the snow before she opened the door to their office.
    B.B. looked up, phone to his ear, and smiled. With his cropped hair and his athletic build, he looked more like a marine than a headhunter in training.
    “I’d like to hold,” he said politely but firmly into the telephone. He put his hand over the mouth of the receiver. “Good morning, Wetzon.”
    “Good morning, B.B.,” she said, hanging her coat in the closet, counting under her breath, “three, four—”
    “Good morning, Wetzon!” Harold burst out of the little cubbyhole they had built for him in the reception area when B.B. had been hired.
    “Five,” Wetzon said, turning to Harold. It had taken him less than five seconds to make points with her. He was so busy competing with B.B., he seemed to have forgotten that B.B. had been hired because Harold so wanted to become a full-time recruiter and take on his own candidates.
    “Good morning, Harold,” she said. “How is it going? Didn’t you have someone interviewing with Bache this morning?”
    “We had to cancel because of the weather. There’s a backup on the Long Island Expressway.”
    “No reason for today to be any different.” There was always some kind of backup on the Long Island Expressway. “Too bad. Try to get that rescheduled as soon as possible. Anyone else? Are you doing any interviews here today?” She opened the door to the office she and Smith shared.
    “No,” Harold said glumly, retreating to his cubbyhole. “The