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Lee explained to Hem. She opened the clasp and slipped the prospectus out
an inch, then slid it back and closed the envelope.
    “You don’t mean Xenia Smith?”
Hem practically had an orgasm. He beamed an extra-huge smile at Wetzon.
    She shaded her eyes. Shit, hell, and
corruption, she thought. Another one of Smith’s conquests. But why was she
surprised? Smith made it her business to know everybody important. “You’ve met,
I see.”
    “At one of Bill Veeder’s parties last
year. She’s gorgeous. We really hit it off.”
    You would, Wetzon thought bitchily.
Especially as you both agree on the most important thing in life—money.
    “But how did you get hold of this,
darlin’?” The white envelope had disappeared into Laura Lee’s attaché.
    “A.T. gave Smith what we all thought
was p.r. material and a sample contract yesterday.”
    “Smith saw this?” Horror
mottled Laura Lee’s smooth complexion.
    “She couldn’t fit it in her purse, so
she gave it to me to hold for her. I looked at it last night. Smith hasn’t seen
it because she’s in Connecticut till Monday. And no, Laura Lee, she knows
nothing about it.” Wetzon got to her feet.
    “I’ll have A.T. messenger over the
right envelope,” Hem said, also rising.
    “Wetzon, darlin’, please give me your
word that what you know will go no further.” Laura Lee’s words and manner were
all super-professional, but her eyes gave her away. They carried a plea.
    “You have my word, Laura Lee, along
with a few extra words of advice from a not so impartial observer: Don’t
stampede this over Micklynn.”
    “Oh, she’ll come around. She has to,”
Hem said. Wetzon’s immediate thought was: Your picture is sure to be next to smarmy in the dictionary. “It’ll make her life so much easier. Once the offering goes
through she’ll never have to cook another day of her life.”
    “You think that’s what she wants?”
Instinct told her that cooking was Micklynn’s life. Wetzon touched her finger
to her brow in a salute. “See ya,” she said.
    Hem changed his seat so that he was
facing Laura Lee directly. As Wetzon walked away, she heard him say, “Laura
Lee, you have the most beautiful breasts.”
    She turned back to Laura Lee and made
a gagging gesture. Laura Lee’s lips twitched, but that was as much as she gave.
    Wetzon was out of sight before Hem
Barron looked over his shoulder.
    On the street, Wetzon breathed in the
honest fumes of automotive pollution. A vendor was selling honey-roasted
peanuts and she stopped to buy a bag, hoping they would mitigate the bad taste
in her mouth. She knew that Laura Lee would call her later to try to explain
that this was a business relationship, which Wetzon could see it was. But was
it worth it?
    As she headed uptown toward the Upper West Side and home, it was Smith’s comment about stockbrokers that came to Wetzon’s
mind: “Lie down with stockbrokers, get up with fleas.” Anyone who lay down with
the likes of Hemingway Barron would be lucky to get up with only fleas.

Chapter Nine

     
     
     
    "Metzger’s
sister-in-law. Sheila,” Silvestri said. He Di vided the mofongo—an amalgamation of mashed
plantains and pork rind shaped into a cone, surrounded by a garlicky
gravy—between them unevenly.
    “Hey, you took more for yourself.”
    “I’m a growing boy.” He grinned at
her, daring her to say more. The scant shadow of dark beard lay half buried in
the cleft of his chin.
    “I won’t comment,” she said.
    “That’s a comment.” His voice was
muffled as he wolfed down his oversized share.
    Once at Café Con Leche, their
favorite neighborhood restaurant, a woman at the table next to theirs had been
eating mofongo. When Wetzon asked about it, the woman told her it was a Puerto
Rican peasant dish and gave them their first taste. They were sold.
    “We have to drive out to West Hempstead tonight,” Silvestri said.
    “Oh? How come?”
    “Metzger’s sister-in-law.”
    “What about her?” Artie