hysterical woman, Dougie Culver, so get that patronizing tone out of your voice.”
He chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Wetzon. You let it all hang out.” He patted her arm. “Come on, be kind and split my Danish with me.” He patted his plumpness spilling over the waist of his jeans. “And you can tell me who y’all were meetin’.” Without waiting for her response, he walked off down the corridor toward his office.
“Dougie—” Oh, hell. Her stomach growled. Just the thought of being locked up for two days without food had made her hungry. What a baby you are, Wetzon , she thought. She followed Dougie Culver.
“Have you seen my office, Wetzon?” He walked through the open door and waved her in after him. The focal point of the office was not the de rigueur massive mahogany desk, the computer, the Quotron, the Telerate machine, and the collection of four separate telephones, or even the incredible view of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty rising out of the morning mist, but rather, a floor-to-ceiling glass-enclosed vitrine with all kinds, shapes, and colors of seashells displayed on its shelves.
“Wow!” Wetzon said, drawn to the shelves. A huge chunk of rosy coral beckoned her on eye level.
“My grand collection.” He closed the door.
“You scuba?”
“Every chance I get.”
“It’s stunning.”
“Come on and sit down,” he said. He cut the cinnamon Danish on the plastic plate into wedges. “Help yourself.”
She tore herself away from the display case with difficulty and took a wedge of Danish, plunking herself down in one of the two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. The fabric was the same shade of red as the coral in the case.
“I see you matched the decor—” She pointed her wedge of Danish at the display case.
“Pure coincidence, Wetzon.” He smiled his slow smile at her.
“I’ll bet.” She took a bite out of the Danish. It was surprisingly fresh and buttery.
He looked at her expectantly. When she did not pick up his cue, he drawled, “Don’t tell me y’all have taken to interviewin’ brokers here at dawn on a Saturday.”
“No, Dougie. Not a broker, although I’ve been known to meet people in odd places at odd times. You know how paranoid you brokers are.”
He smiled at her, his bald dome shiny in the bright natural light.
“I’m not going to tell you anything, Dougie, so don’t try to wheedle it out of me.” She helped herself to another slice of Danish. “This is good. Not your usual greasy-spoon variety.”
“Wetzon!” He mocked horror. “Y’all know I wouldn’t let that kind of junk past these lips. No, no. One of our employees has a connection for gourmet baked goodies. We get supplied six days a week. Sundays you’re on your own.” He picked up the last piece of Danish and ate it. “So, Wetzon, my word of honor as a Southern gentleman that I won’t reveal—”
“No. I keep confidences.”
“I know that. You’re a real pro. Everyone on the Street respects you. You have a top-notch company, and we rely on you to keep sendin’ us the good-quality people you have been.”
“Why, Dougie, that’s a really nice commercial. Just put in a good word for us with Hoffritz.”
Dougie smiled, slowly eased his feet in their Cole Haan moccasins onto his desk, and leaned back in his leather chair. “Now, Wetzon, y’all know you’re never goin’ to get the recognition you deserve from Johnny Hoffritz because you sit down to pee.”
She stared at him for a moment, not sure she’d heard right. “I’m not sure I got what you said.” She was having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“You heard me.” He was deadly serious.
She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “That’s what I like about you, Dougie, you let it all hang out.”
A muffled scream, a woman’s decibels.
Their eyes locked. Wetzon got to the door first and threw it open. The scream came again and again, agonizing, from the floor below,
He chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Wetzon. You let it all hang out.” He patted her arm. “Come on, be kind and split my Danish with me.” He patted his plumpness spilling over the waist of his jeans. “And you can tell me who y’all were meetin’.” Without waiting for her response, he walked off down the corridor toward his office.
“Dougie—” Oh, hell. Her stomach growled. Just the thought of being locked up for two days without food had made her hungry. What a baby you are, Wetzon , she thought. She followed Dougie Culver.
“Have you seen my office, Wetzon?” He walked through the open door and waved her in after him. The focal point of the office was not the de rigueur massive mahogany desk, the computer, the Quotron, the Telerate machine, and the collection of four separate telephones, or even the incredible view of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty rising out of the morning mist, but rather, a floor-to-ceiling glass-enclosed vitrine with all kinds, shapes, and colors of seashells displayed on its shelves.
“Wow!” Wetzon said, drawn to the shelves. A huge chunk of rosy coral beckoned her on eye level.
“My grand collection.” He closed the door.
“You scuba?”
“Every chance I get.”
“It’s stunning.”
“Come on and sit down,” he said. He cut the cinnamon Danish on the plastic plate into wedges. “Help yourself.”
She tore herself away from the display case with difficulty and took a wedge of Danish, plunking herself down in one of the two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. The fabric was the same shade of red as the coral in the case.
“I see you matched the decor—” She pointed her wedge of Danish at the display case.
“Pure coincidence, Wetzon.” He smiled his slow smile at her.
“I’ll bet.” She took a bite out of the Danish. It was surprisingly fresh and buttery.
He looked at her expectantly. When she did not pick up his cue, he drawled, “Don’t tell me y’all have taken to interviewin’ brokers here at dawn on a Saturday.”
“No, Dougie. Not a broker, although I’ve been known to meet people in odd places at odd times. You know how paranoid you brokers are.”
He smiled at her, his bald dome shiny in the bright natural light.
“I’m not going to tell you anything, Dougie, so don’t try to wheedle it out of me.” She helped herself to another slice of Danish. “This is good. Not your usual greasy-spoon variety.”
“Wetzon!” He mocked horror. “Y’all know I wouldn’t let that kind of junk past these lips. No, no. One of our employees has a connection for gourmet baked goodies. We get supplied six days a week. Sundays you’re on your own.” He picked up the last piece of Danish and ate it. “So, Wetzon, my word of honor as a Southern gentleman that I won’t reveal—”
“No. I keep confidences.”
“I know that. You’re a real pro. Everyone on the Street respects you. You have a top-notch company, and we rely on you to keep sendin’ us the good-quality people you have been.”
“Why, Dougie, that’s a really nice commercial. Just put in a good word for us with Hoffritz.”
Dougie smiled, slowly eased his feet in their Cole Haan moccasins onto his desk, and leaned back in his leather chair. “Now, Wetzon, y’all know you’re never goin’ to get the recognition you deserve from Johnny Hoffritz because you sit down to pee.”
She stared at him for a moment, not sure she’d heard right. “I’m not sure I got what you said.” She was having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“You heard me.” He was deadly serious.
She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “That’s what I like about you, Dougie, you let it all hang out.”
A muffled scream, a woman’s decibels.
Their eyes locked. Wetzon got to the door first and threw it open. The scream came again and again, agonizing, from the floor below,
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