Free Tender Death by Annette Meyers Page B

C. Fields imitation. “Fired from Merrill, hired by Hutton, fired by Hutton, hired by Witter, fired by Witter, hired by Fahnley.”
    “Hot for Xenia Smith,” Wetzon added impishly.
    “A little man,” Smith drawled. “In every sense of the word.”
    “Smith, you didn’t,” Wetzon said, feet hitting the floor, shocked.
    “Oh come on, Wetzon, grow up. This is the real world. Besides, sweetie pie, you know me better than that.”
    “Whew. You really had me going for a minute.” Wetzon examined the beginning of a run in her hose. “He was such a pig. But since you know him better than I do, don’t you think you should call him?”
    “Where would we place him? No, it’s a waste of time.” Smith crumpled up the paper from her roast beef sandwich and threw it away. “Want some of my cookies? They’re chocolate chip from Mrs. Fields.”
    “No thanks. I’ll stick to my apple.” Wetzon closed her eyes and frowned. “I think his name was Maurice ... Maurice ... Sanderson.”
    “Who?”
    “The old broker from Fahnley. Maybe one of our clients would take him.” She opened the file drawer next to her desk and rifled through the S’s. “Here he is. Maurice Sanderson, age sixty-nine, as of last year.” She skimmed her notes. “Well, he does a small but steady business. Writes big tickets.”
    “Wetzon, I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.” Smith finished the last cookie and dusted the crumbs from her hands and lap.
    “I’ll talk to Maurice and you start calling around.”
    “Oh, Wetzon, honestly.” Smith threw up her hands. “You’ll be the death of me.”
    “Hi, Maurice, this is Wetzon here, remember me, of Smith and Wetzon, your favorite headhunter.”
    “Well, it’s certainly nice to hear from you right now, Ms. Wetzon.” Maurice Sanderson’s voice was formal and pleasant. He did not reveal concern in his tone, only in his words. “I think I may be in need of your services.”
    After Wetzon quickly updated Maurice’s figures and background information, she passed it on to Smith, who groaned. “Wetzon, this is humiliating. I can’t do it. How will it look to our clients? Let the old geezer retire.”
    “Consider it a good deed that’ll get you into heaven,” Wetzon said, “and us a small fee. Come on, Smith. Someone like Maurice can’t retire. This is his whole life. He loves it, and it’s all he knows after forty years in this business.”
    “Too old to bother with.”
    “Try.”
    The reactions came quickly:
    “ ... We don’t want brokers that old.”
    “ ... How old? Seventy? You’ve got to be kidding .”
    “  ... Smith, have you lost your senses?”
    “ ... We don’t want these old guys. They take up space and cost us money. How much business does he have? Forget it.”
    “ ... I’ll see him if you want me to, but I won’t hire him .’’
    After five phone calls, Smith swung around in her chair and announced, “I’m giving it up. I agree with them.”
    “Try Curtis Evans. They clear through the Bear. Tell them he writes big tickets. Please, Smith.”
    “Does he?”
    “What?”
    “Write big tickets.”
    “Of course. Would I lie to you?”
    “Humpf.”
    Twenty minutes later Wetzon called Maurice Sanderson with an appointment for the following day with Bob Curtis of Curtis Evans.
    “There now, doesn’t that make you feel saintly, Smith?” Wetzon teased, standing, looking out at their snow-blanketed garden.
    “No.”
    “It’s still snowing. You can’t even see sky up there. It feels as if we’re in an igloo.” She shivered and closed the blinds.
    “I’m going home to get everything ready,” Smith said. “Please try to come early. I need you. You know I count on you.”
    “Come on, Smith, don’t do that. Won’t Leon be there? And Mark, of course.”
    “Not good enough.” Smith hugged her again. “I need my little friend.”
    “I have Kevin De Haven to see around four, and I want to look in on Hazel. Then I’ll go home and change and