Read Online The Groaning Board by Annette Meyers - Free Book Online Page B

endearing quality,
sugar,” Smith con-tinued, shuffling languidly. “By the way, I want you to be
nice...” She lingered on the word nice, „...to Bill Vee-der. He’s such a
lovely man.”
    “Excuse me? Bill Veeder?” A thought
hit her. “Dammit, Smith, is that why you were so insistent on knowing my route
home last week? You were setting me up.”
    Smith smiled her Cheshire cat smile;
she held the deck to her breast for a moment and closed her eyes. When she
opened them, she began to lay out the cards across her desk, all the while
carrying on an indistinguishable murmuring.
    “Grrrr,” Wetzon said. This was so
typically Smith. Condemn, flatter, manipulate, change the subject. Still, Smith
did have a sixth sense. It had been over a week now since Sheila Gelber’s
shivah and Silvestri was hardly around, physically as well as emotionally.
Wetzon looked down at the next suspect sheet, picked up the phone, and called
Benny Flaxman at Loeb Dawkins in Ashland, Oregon. Max had cold-called him last
year and Wetzon had stepped in because it appeared Benny was unhappy. Yet he
sat there like a body at rest. The only positive was that he’d gone to talk to
Rivington Ellis and it had been a good first meeting and a better second
meeting.
    “I hate it here, Wetzon,” Benny told
her now. “I didn’t do any of those frigging limited partnerships and I get
tarred with the same brush as the worst of them here.”
    “Benny, you’ve been complaining to me
for months. Now Rivington Ellis wants to write you a check to come to New York and kick the tires. Do it.”
    “I’ll think about it. I had a call
from this guy—another headhunter. I asked him about Rivington Ellis, said I was
heing set up by someone else, and he told me they’re on the block.”
    Wetzon gnashed her teeth. Why did
brokers have to listen to everyone with a story? “Not true, Benny. They just
turned down a German bank who wanted to buy a piece. They want fo stay
independent. Who was the other headhunter?”
    “I don’t know. Tom something or
other.”
    That damn Tom Keegen was out there
poisoning the well, Wetzon thought. She said, “Oh, yes, I know him. He’s a bad
guy. You don’t want to listen to him.”
    “Okay, Wetzon, you know I trust you,”
Benny said. He hung up.
    An infinitesimal tapping came from
above. The flooring was being laid. Incredible progress had been made, or so it
seemed, because they were no longer inundated with dust, grit, and noise. In a
couple of weeks they’d have their new office. The problem was, Wetzon didn’t
care one way or the other. She’d lost her enthusiasm for the business. It
wasn’t fun anymore.
    The upfront deals had virtually
disappeared, the firms bowing to the pressure from the SEC. Many of the firms
had instituted attractive pension plans, and two of Smith and Wetzon’s best
clients had stopped working with headhunters.
    “You’re too expensive for us,” Chip
Constantine, the head of retail for Marley Straus, had told Wetzon. “Our
managers will have to do their own recruiting.”
    “Chip,” Wetzon had said, “I wish you
good luck.” Most managers had neither the time nor the talent to recruit. They
tripped over their own egos.
    Chip. Why did so many of these men in
finance carry their little-boy names into adulthood with them? She knew four
Buzzes, two Chips, five Chucks, two Spikes, one Buck, four Buddys, four Sonnys,
one Fuzzy, three Skips.
    Skip to m’lou, m’darlin’.
    Smith’s hiss yanked Wetzon out of her
reverie. “What’s the matter?”
    “Everything. Nothing is working out
right,” Smith muttered. She was staring down at her cards.
    Max knocked, then stuck his head in
the door. “Phone call for you, Wetzon.”
    “Who is it, Max?”
    “The King of Cups is reversed,” Smith
said.
    Max squinted at Smith, utterly
confused.
    “What does that mean?” Wetzon asked
Smith. “Who did you say it was, Max?”
    “He said it was confidential,” Max
said. “He has a funny voice.