Read Tender Death for Free Online

now?” Smith sounded wounded. “You are getting so sensitive.”
    Wetzon didn’t know why she bothered. She and Smith would never see eye to eye about most things. “It’s all right, Smith, I guess I’m just upset about what happened. I’m going to lie here and try to catch up.”
    “Wait, before you hang up, you had some calls—”
    Wetzon looked at her watch. It was five o’clock. She groaned. “Okay, let’s hear.”
    “Evan Cornell.”
    “He’s looking for something in management. He calls every couple of months. It can wait till tomorrow.”
    “Mary Ann Marusi. I hope she’s not in trouble again. Kidder hasn’t even paid us yet.”
    “I don’t think so. She said she would call me for a drink or lunch after she got settled.”
    “I hope so, but considering her record ...”
    “What record, Smith? Really, I don’t know why you have it in for Mary Ann. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
    “No, just dummied up her runs from Sontheimer and Company.”
    “That’s not true. You’re taking Don Schwartzman’s word for that, and you know damned well Don’s a liar. He’s lied about the end-of-year production of everyone we’ve placed there. He cheated us. That, if you remember, is why we’re not working with Sontheimer anymore.”
    “How could it slip my mind. I must be losing my grip.” Smith laughed lightly.
    “Any more calls?”
    “Yes. Peter Tormenkov, confirming breakfast tomorrow at seven-thirty at the American Festival Cafe.”
    “Oh shit. I’d forgotten all about that.”
    “Who’s Peter Tormenkov?”
    “Someone Howie Minton referred.”
    “Jesus, Howie Minton, the great mover,” Smith said sarcastically, tweaking Wetzon for always believing Howie Minton when he called her and swore that this time he was really ready to change firms. Wetzon would set up interviews for him with various firms, they would all make him offers, and then he’d stay on with L. L. Rosenkind.
    “Well, you’re right there. I admit it.” Wetzon laughed. “Anyway, this Tormenkov person works for L. L. Rosenkind and he’s unhappy—”
    “Just like Howie, I suppose.”
    “Maybe not. Howie says he really wants to leave and that he has a nice book for a rookie.”
    “A rookie? God, I hate to work with rookies. You spend as much time with them, more, than with a big producer where we can really earn a fee,” Smith complained. “Couldn’t you have gotten him to come to the office? It’s a waste of time and money buying a rookie breakfast.”
    “He was so paranoid about confidentiality, I thought what the hell.” Wetzon didn’t look forward to a seven-thirty breakfast either. She had never gotten used to the Wall Street clock, where the day often started at the crack of dawn and brokers were sitting at their desks at seven o’clock. The day officially began at nine-thirty when the Market opened, but a lot of brokers were on the phone with clients considerably earlier. And those who prospected for new clients knew that the corporate honchos were usually at their desks by seven, without a secretary around to run interference. But Wetzon, who’d spent all those years in the theater, still felt as if her heart didn’t even start beating until ten o’clock. “Anything else?”
    “Yes, one more. Kevin De Haven. No message. Just a phone number. Looks like a Merrill number.”
    “De Haven? Does that name sound familiar to you?”
    “No. Don’t you know him?”
    “No.” Her curiosity was piqued, despite her fatigue. “I wonder if it’s too late. Let me try him and I’ll call you back.”
    She hung up the phone and dialed the number Kevin De Haven had left.
    “De Haven.”
    “Hi, this is Leslie Wetzon. You called me this afternoon.”
    “Oh yeah. I was returning your call.”
    “I didn’t call you.”
    “But I found your name and phone number on my desk this morning when I got back from vacation.”
    “Well, I didn’t call you, Kevin,” Wetzon said, baffled. “What do you