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do?”
    “I’m a stockbroker.”
    “You are?” She suppressed a chortle. “What a coincidence. I’m a headhunter.”
    “Hey, pal, what field do you headhunt in?” De Haven asked, warming up. Brokers loved to talk. Salespeople loved to talk. So long as you kept the conversation going, you still had a shot at closing the sale.
    “Your field. Stockbrokers. Maybe we should talk.”
    “Maybe we should. I may be interested in using your services.”
    “What kind of business do you do in numbers?” Wetzon asked casually.
    “Oh three quarters of a mil or so.”
    “No kidding. You’re not a stockbroker. You’re a gorilla. When can we sit down and talk?” With the average stockbroker doing somewhere between two hundred and fifty and three hundred thousand in gross production, De Haven was indeed a gorilla.
    “How about tomorrow? After the close.”
    “Great. Where are you located? My office is on Forty-ninth, off Second.”
    “Well, I’m at 200 Park. Maybe I’ll come to see you. Why don’t you call me tomorrow at four?”
    “Great, Kevin, I’ll do that.” She hung up the phone and shouted, “Wowee! Gold!” She dialed the office, and when Smith answered, she said, “Guess who lives right?”
    “What? Tell me. Who is he?”
    “Oh just a little old three-quarters-of-a-million-dollars producer.”
    “Holy shit, how did we get so lucky?”
    “I don’t know, but I’m sure going to find out. He says I called him and left my name and number, but I know I didn’t. Someone is watching out for me.”
    “I’ll let you know after I check the cards tonight,” Smith said, referring to her tarot reading. “When are you meeting him?”
    “Tomorrow, after the close. Maybe at the office sometime after four o’clock.”
    “Damn it, Wetzon, my party is tomorrow night. You know I have to leave early.”
    “You don’t have to meet him, Smith.”
    “But I want to. It’s not right.” Smith was petulant.
    “Would you rather I put him off and lose him?” Smith sometimes could get so ridiculous. Even though she was older than Wetzon, Wetzon frequently felt older, or less childish anyway.
    Smith’s response was an emphatic, “Humpf!”
    “Look, Smith, I’m beat. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    “Oh, Wetzon, wait a minute. I forgot to ask you. Did she own her apartment?”
    “What? What apartment?”
    “The one that belongs to the woman who killed herself, of course, who did you think? I want you to ask Hazel about it for me. Maybe I can get it at a good price. If Leon and I should get married ... we’re going to need a bigger place.”

7.
    W ETZON WAS FORAGING in the pantry closet. There wasn’t much. Since Carlos had become a choreographer, his visits were erratic, and she fended for herself with groceries. Years ago, when Carlos’s dance career had begun to fade, he had started a housekeeping business. It became so successful that he soon had an army of out-of-work dancers working for him, cleaning and cooking in houses and apartments all over the city.
    She closed the door and then reopened it and took out a can of waterpacked tuna fish, setting it on the counter.
    “When in doubt, bagel it,” she said aloud, and cut a sesame bagel in half.
    She went into the dining room and put her answering machine on.
    “Hello there, joy of my life, this is the boy choreographer, calling to let you know all is well on the firing line, and I’ll be there tomorrow sometime. Tried you at the office and got the barracuda, so I’m sure she didn’t relay the message.”
    Carlos. And he was right. The barracuda, commonly known as Smith, hadn’t told her. Smith and Carlos hated each other.
    “Hi, buddy,” Wetzon said to the answering machine. “Talk to you later.”
    The machine beeped. The next call was a hang-up. Another beep. Then the strains of Ethel Merman belting out, “There’s no business like show business,” with full orchestra on the answering tape. A Carlos special. He always did that when he cleaned