The Groaning Board Read Online Free PDF

and
sneezed. A mini dust storm took flight over her telephone.
    When Smith had called her that
morning to say she was going up to her house in Westport, leaving Wetzon to cope
with the mess in the office, Wetzon hadn’t mentioned The Groaning Board IPO.
Smith loved inside information, particularly if she thought she could make some
money on it. Wetzon should probably have called A. T. Barron and exchanged
envelopes, but she was curious. She could torture Smith with it later, after
she talked to Laura Lee Day.
    The IPO market certainly had heated
up this year. Even old, privately held companies like Estee Lauder were making
the move into some portion of public ownership. The move was attractive to
owners as they entered middle age because they could cash out.
    “Hi, darlin’, what’s cookin’?” Laura
Lee’s soft, upbeat Southern tones spilled from the phone.
    “What’s cookin’, darlin’? Why, The
Groaning Board, sweetheart,” Wetzon said.
    Silence followed, growing pregnant
along the cables between them.
    Wetzon smiled, not giving an inch.
Silence made people anxious, got them to fill the void, usually with
information they weren’t ready to share.
    “Well,” Laura Lee said finally, “are
there no secrets left: on Wall Street?”
    “None whatever.”
    More silence. Wetzon pressed her lips
together and waited Laura Lee out.
    “I’m goin’ to be havin’ a drink at
the bar at Oceana at five o’clock this afternoon. Why don’t you come and
whisper in my ear how you found out, Ms. Leslie Wetzon, darlin’?“
    “Let me look at my schedule.” Wetzon
counted to fifteen. “I could do that.”
    “You know, you have just told me in
an obscure way that you know somethin’ almost no one on the Street knows. I am
dyin’ to hear all about it.”
    “I’ll see you at five.”
    “Wetzon, wait a minute. I want you to
promise me you won’t say a word to anyone else about this. That means
you-know-who with whom you share your office. For this kind of inside
information, darlin’, some people would kill.”

Chapter Seven

     
     
     
    The bar at
Oceana on East Fifty-fourth Street pro- vided an intimate setting for a drink of an
afternoon, and Wetzon’s friend Laura Lee Day, money manager extraordinaire, was
exactly the type of successful, glamorous New Yorker whom the establishment
wanted to attract.
    Of course, when Laura Lee made an
appearance anywhere, she attracted attention. Waiters stumbled over one another
to serve her, and men of all ages wanted to make her acquaintance. It wasn’t
that she was beautiful, because she wasn’t. What she had was an inner glow, a joie and an intelligence filled with humor. The combination set her apart from other
women. Unlike most on the Street, Laura Lee read books other than Tom Clancy’s,
partook of the theatre, opera, ballet, concerts, and museums, all the cultural
events her adopted city offered. Because of her lively curiosity and
imagination, Laura Lee was always interesting.
    She’d come to New York from Mississippi to be a concert violinist and ended up at Merrill Lynch because her daddy had
refused to pay for any more music lessons. Not long after Wetzon had become a
headhunter, she’d met Laura Lee and placed her at Oppenheimer, and they’d
become friends. Laura Lee was still studying the violin, but now she was paying
for her own lessons.
    At the top of the stairs near the
entrance to the bar, Fabio sat at a table by himself. He looked utterly out of
place with his long hair, oversized features, and his open shirt—the better to
see the pecs, my dear. His body language gave away his need to be recognized.
Wetzon thought: Fabio, your Warhol fifteen minutes of fame are over.
    The bar was elegant and understated.
Quiet and dark. Wine racks rose to a soaring ceiling, at the pinnacle of which
was a huge metal fish.
    “Ah, there you are, darlin’.” Laura
Lee waved at Wetzon. She was surrounded by waiters and a couple of attractive
men in the