Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

crammed tightly almost one against the other. On normal days it attracted both a bohemian crowd from the neighborhood and a business crowd because of its proximity to the financial district.
    Twoey had taken over the entire restaurant for the evening, which must have cost him a fortune. The guest list had settled in around forty people.
    A small combo of a drummer and two guitarists was set up in a tight spot near the bar, and they were playing ’60s rock music. On the wall was a mural in relief, picturing an old New York neighborhood. Men in pinstripes and ladies in everything from Carolyne Roehm to DKNY were clustered in small groups around the bar, drinking. The men were talking business, and it was obvious.
    Wetzon checked her coat and scoped the room for Alton. She saw him at the far end of the bar talking to Neil Munchen from Rosenkind, Luwisher, but every now and then he would glance up, letting his eyes search the room. She felt a small, sweet thrill watching him look for her. She stood still, waiting. When his eyes lit on her, he smiled that warm, wide smile and reeled her in.
    “You’re looking dishy, Wetzon,” Neil said, staring at her legs.
    He was bronze as a lifeguard in his year-round tan. He must use one of those dumb tanning places. Remembering their meeting in Rockefeller Center, she wondered if he was seriously thinking of leaving Rosenkind, Luwisher.
    She gave him her debutante smile. “Thanks, Neil.” Maybe she shouldn’t have shortened the dress as much as she had.
    “She is dishy,” Alton said, putting his arm around her, and Neil’s face registered one of those surprised looks that said, So that’s the lay of the land. Alton had not so subtly staked his claim. Immediately, it took the edge off her thrill. Why did men do that? It made women feel like a trophy of some sort.
    “What are you drinking, Leslie?” Alton was holding a near-empty glass of bourbon. She could smell its syrupy essence.
    “Amstel,” she said, rewarding herself. But she’d stick to one. “Where’s Gail?”
    Neil pointed to his wife, who was talking with Janet Barnes, Twoey’s attractive red-haired mother.
    “Hey, Wetzon, how’re ya doin’?” Dougie Culver, one of the managing directors of Rosenkind, Luwisher, sauntered over. Damn, now he would do his touchy-feely number, which he proceeded to do, running his hands up and down her back. She saw his face register surprise when he didn’t feel her bra. Ha! She was wearing her silk teddy under the black dress.
    She stepped away from him. “I’m doin’ juss fine, Dougie darlin’. How’re ya doin’?”
    He had the grace to laugh at her put-on southern accent. “See y’all later.”
    “What a day,” Neil said. He looked tired. He was sweating, and the restaurant wasn’t that hot. He tilted the bottle of Beck’s and took a long swig.
    “The market close up or down?”
    “Down a hundred.”
    “Down?”
    Neil shrugged. “It was way up most of the day.” He seemed nervous. Didn’t look her in the eye. “The sell programs kicked in and the traders took profits.”
    “Everyone says we’re in for a new bull market.”
    “Wetzon, when everyone says it, that’s a sure sign it’s over. I’d sell if I were you. I think we’re in for crisis times in the markets. Like just before the Crash in ’87. People are pushing the envelope, taking chances. When things blow this time, there’ll be blood on the Street.”
    “God, that’s depressing, Neil.”
    He grimaced. “Can’t help it. There’ll be more mergers, so it’ll affect all of us.” He took another swig of the beer. “I guess you heard Rona went back to Bliss.”
    “Yes. I’m sorry.”
    “It was probably a good idea. The guys weren’t happy with the publicity.”
    “But she’s been cleared.”
    “They’d always connect the bad stuff with her. She’d never have lived it down.”
    Alton was weaving through the crowd at the bar on his way back, so she had only a moment to pose the question. “Neil, how do you know ... um ... Dr. Gordon?”
    “Dr. Gordon? I don’t know a Dr. Gordon.” He was looking at her blankly.
    “Yes, you do. Jerry. Remember the day we met in Rockefeller Center? I saw you talking to him as if you knew him.”
    “Oh, you mean Gordie?”
    “Is that what you call him?”
    “Gordie. Sure. Gordie Jerome. Hadn’t seen him in years. Why do you call him doctor? Is that a joke?”
    “No. He’s a doctor of psychology.”
    “My ass, he’s a doctor of