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Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: Mystery
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She left it for Wetzon to fill her in on what was happening on the Street, while Smith let Wetzon know the social news from W , which Wetzon found stupid and frivolous.
“Tell me something, Smith,” she said, “what does Jake really do?”
“Why are you doing this to me, Wetzon? Jake is a wonderful, caring man. He paid a harsh price for what he did. He’ll have his license back in September and he’s—”
“Please don’t tell me that he’s coming back into the business.”
“Sweetie, don’t be naive. He never left.”
Wetzon hung up the phone, finished her bagel in big, angry bites, and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Of course Donahue never left. How could she be so naive? It was amazing what the Street sanctioned, even after the Crash, and the insider trading scandals.
Just three months ago, against her better judgment, she had placed Bruce Pecora, a broker with two client complaints and a pending lawsuit, at a major firm after giving the eager manager every caveat she could about the broker. Bruce had, in fact, been turned down by almost every other firm on the Street. Only two years in production and he was grossing $350,000. How could he do it? Indeed. One account of a hundred thousand dollars had generated thirty-six thousand dollars’ worth of commissions in one year. He had a churn ’em and burn ’em mentality.
But the headhunting business had slowed to a crawl because brokers were nervous about moving, and production had fallen off because clients were nervous about the market. Smith was nagging at her to show Pecora, regardless. “Someone will want him,” she said, “and we’ll make ourselves a neat twenty-five thou. And once he’s there, he’s their problem.”
“God, Smith, if something goes wrong, it’ll reflect on us.”
“This kid is a time bomb waiting to go off,” one manager told Wetzon. “We’ll pass on him.”
Mike Norman, who managed the Rockefeller Center branch for Loeb Dawkins, had called her, begging for brokers. “Don’t you have anyone for me? Come on, send me brokers.”
“I have someone, but he’s trouble, Mike. Lawsuit, complaints on his U4. Hotheaded.”
“What are his numbers?”
“Three-fifty, second year.”
“Great. When can I see him?”
“He’s trouble, Mike.”
“I can handle him, Wetzon, just leave him to me.”
Famous last words. The day before the Goldie Barnes banquet, Loeb Dawkins had to tell Bruce Pecora to take a leave of absence, at the suggestion of the New York Stock Exchange. It looked as if the Exchange was going to pull Pecora’s license.
She’d felt terrible, responsible.
And Smith had screamed at her, “Mike’s a big boy. He knew what he was doing. And we have our money.”
The phone rang again just as she was outside her door locking the upper lock, the Medco. She hesitated, then unlocked the door and made a dash for the phone. Too late. The machine clicked on. Oh well, let the machine go ahead and answer it. It was probably a survey taker or some salesman.
The first sound she heard was labored breathing—exactly what she needed right now, a breather—then a voice buried in a bronchial cough. “Ms. Wetzon. I must see you as soon as possible.”
She picked up the phone. “Hold on, Dr. Ash.” She turned her machine off. “Are you still there?”
“I must talk to you about—”
“Let me guess,” she said, impatiently. “You’re going to tell me about the study.”
“I’ll provide you with a copy, but—”
“Oh, good.” How had he gotten her home number? She wasn’t listed ... then she remembered. She must have given him the card with the inkblot, the one she hadn’t given to Ellie.
“But that’s not what I want to talk about.” Ash took a loud gasping breath. “Can you meet me at Luwisher Brothers tomorrow morning early—at seven-thirty?”
“Seven-thirty? Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Does it have to be downtown?”
“Yes. There’s something I want
“Tell me something, Smith,” she said, “what does Jake really do?”
“Why are you doing this to me, Wetzon? Jake is a wonderful, caring man. He paid a harsh price for what he did. He’ll have his license back in September and he’s—”
“Please don’t tell me that he’s coming back into the business.”
“Sweetie, don’t be naive. He never left.”
Wetzon hung up the phone, finished her bagel in big, angry bites, and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Of course Donahue never left. How could she be so naive? It was amazing what the Street sanctioned, even after the Crash, and the insider trading scandals.
Just three months ago, against her better judgment, she had placed Bruce Pecora, a broker with two client complaints and a pending lawsuit, at a major firm after giving the eager manager every caveat she could about the broker. Bruce had, in fact, been turned down by almost every other firm on the Street. Only two years in production and he was grossing $350,000. How could he do it? Indeed. One account of a hundred thousand dollars had generated thirty-six thousand dollars’ worth of commissions in one year. He had a churn ’em and burn ’em mentality.
But the headhunting business had slowed to a crawl because brokers were nervous about moving, and production had fallen off because clients were nervous about the market. Smith was nagging at her to show Pecora, regardless. “Someone will want him,” she said, “and we’ll make ourselves a neat twenty-five thou. And once he’s there, he’s their problem.”
“God, Smith, if something goes wrong, it’ll reflect on us.”
“This kid is a time bomb waiting to go off,” one manager told Wetzon. “We’ll pass on him.”
Mike Norman, who managed the Rockefeller Center branch for Loeb Dawkins, had called her, begging for brokers. “Don’t you have anyone for me? Come on, send me brokers.”
“I have someone, but he’s trouble, Mike. Lawsuit, complaints on his U4. Hotheaded.”
“What are his numbers?”
“Three-fifty, second year.”
“Great. When can I see him?”
“He’s trouble, Mike.”
“I can handle him, Wetzon, just leave him to me.”
Famous last words. The day before the Goldie Barnes banquet, Loeb Dawkins had to tell Bruce Pecora to take a leave of absence, at the suggestion of the New York Stock Exchange. It looked as if the Exchange was going to pull Pecora’s license.
She’d felt terrible, responsible.
And Smith had screamed at her, “Mike’s a big boy. He knew what he was doing. And we have our money.”
The phone rang again just as she was outside her door locking the upper lock, the Medco. She hesitated, then unlocked the door and made a dash for the phone. Too late. The machine clicked on. Oh well, let the machine go ahead and answer it. It was probably a survey taker or some salesman.
The first sound she heard was labored breathing—exactly what she needed right now, a breather—then a voice buried in a bronchial cough. “Ms. Wetzon. I must see you as soon as possible.”
She picked up the phone. “Hold on, Dr. Ash.” She turned her machine off. “Are you still there?”
“I must talk to you about—”
“Let me guess,” she said, impatiently. “You’re going to tell me about the study.”
“I’ll provide you with a copy, but—”
“Oh, good.” How had he gotten her home number? She wasn’t listed ... then she remembered. She must have given him the card with the inkblot, the one she hadn’t given to Ellie.
“But that’s not what I want to talk about.” Ash took a loud gasping breath. “Can you meet me at Luwisher Brothers tomorrow morning early—at seven-thirty?”
“Seven-thirty? Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Does it have to be downtown?”
“Yes. There’s something I want
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