The Big Killing by Annette Meyers Page A

converted storage room, a small space hole without a window, and the trip to Paris which he should have received for the record-breaking numbers he had done in the past year had not been forthcoming. Since only two brokers in the Atlantic Region had qualified for the trip, management decided to reconsider awarding the trip this year. They were actually hedging with him, having offered him San Francisco instead.
    It was always amazing to Wetzon how foolish the firms were and how cheap. They would rather risk losing a broker than give him sales help so he could make more money for them. And the much-deserved pat on the back—in Scott’s case, the trip to Paris—they were being niggardly about.
    “Nice to meet you, Wetzon,” Scott Fineberg said, without a flicker of recognition.
    He was talking seriously to Oppenheimer and Paine Webber, introductions having been set up by Wetzon.
    “So what’re you selling, baby?” Barry asked impatiently. “What’re you drinking, Wetzon?”
    “Heineken.”
    “Two Heinekens over here,” Barry shouted over the clamor. The bar crowd was now three deep, and people were still pushing into Harry’s behind them.
    “I did sixty thou last month in this new government security fund we have.”
    “Jesus, sixty thou, that’s great!” Barry clapped Scott Fineberg on the back, then took the beers, passed over heads to them. “See you.” He turned abruptly and moved away from Fineberg; Wetzon followed, making eye contact with Fineberg briefly, nodding.
    “What a lying fucker,” Barry said. “Excuse the language, but that’s what he is. He’s not doing anywhere near those numbers. I know him. He couldn’t possibly be doing it.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because he’s a dumb mother who’s connected, and they just feed him business.”
    “Really?”
    “Sure, hey, everyone knows it. Believe me, take my word for it.”
    “Hey, man, good to see you. Some day, huh?”
    “How do you like Jake’s, Stark?” a whiskey-thick voice asked. The dense cigarette smoke and the muted lighting of the bar area made it difficult to see people until you walked into them, which was easy to do anyway since there were so many people milling around. You had to shout to be heard by the person standing at your shoulder. Wetzon wondered how the waiters could keep track of who ordered what, and how they were paying. At that point a waiter in a white apron held out a bill to the narrow bit of space between her and Barry.
    Barry ignored the check and bent to talk to the short, unattractive woman who had asked the question about Jake’s. Wetzon looked at the waiter holding out the bill and took it. “Thank you very much,” she said.
    “Not at all,” he mouthed, bowing slightly and disappearing into the smoke.
    “It’s great, Mildred, you oughta try it someday.” Barry’s laugh was snide.
    “Is he still pulling that pyramid scam?” Mildred asked, equally snide. Her face was more than homely, it was downright ugly. Leathery skin, splotchy, a small mustache on her wrinkled upper lip, under a very large hook of a nose. Even in the faint light, her eyes glinted with malevolence. “You’d better watch your step, Mr. Smart Ass.” She reached up and poked Barry’s chest with a bony finger.
    “Now, Mildred,” Barry said smoothly, looking down at her, “you wouldn’t want my friend here to think you were threatening me, would you?” Menace tinged his formerly genial voice. “And get your fucking finger out of my chest.”
    “I’m not threatening you, you little shit, I’m warning you. Cover your ass or Jake will chop you up in little pieces and flush you down the toilet.” She blew cigarette smoke in his face and moved away.
    Wetzon saw Barry’s fist clench in the darkness. He made a move after Mildred, and then stopped and shrugged.
    “God, who is that horror?” Wetzon asked, a hand on his arm. She could feel the tension through his coat sleeve.
    “Mildred Gleason. Jake Donahue’s