Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street

by Offit, Mike

  “Well, he was an investment banker, right? So maybe someday you’ll have a spot just down the road. You and Cornelia can have an affair.”

  “Right. In your dreams.”

  “How about yours?”

  “Right now, my dreams aren’t focused on money or Cornelia Harper,” Warren said, his gaze level with her pale grey eyes.

  Larisa returned the stare with a crooked grin. “Charmer.”

  They stood in the night air for a few moments. Tiny droplets of salt spray clung to the silky blond hairs that covered Larisa’s forearms. He reached across and ran a finger gently across her arm, making the moisture coalesce and wet her skin. She shivered slightly and turned toward him. He didn’t say anything as he took her in his arms and kissed her softly, and then more forcefully. She wrapped her arms around him, and he felt her tongue dart behind his teeth. His body couldn’t help reacting to her.

  “Hmm. I see what you mean about focus.” Larisa backed off the kiss just enough to speak.

  “Ummm, yeah.” He was a little embarrassed, but riveted to the spot.

  “Well, at least I know where you stand.” She released him and stepped away. “I think this might be very interesting.”

  “Interesting? It might be interesting? Just exactly when do you think it might actually become … interesting?” Warren could see the outline of her body in the breeze as she stood leaning against the next column. She was taut and muscular, defined yet inviting.

  “That’s part of what makes it fun, isn’t it? Patience? Surprise? Spontaneity?” She was looking at him dead on with her wide-set eyes.

  “I have a feeling this is going to be a long weekend.” He half groaned.

  “I certainly hope so. We don’t want to disappoint Cornelia, now, do we?” Larisa laughed and took his hand, leading him back inside.

  * * *

  The group had divided into small conversational circles, the nearest of which swallowed Warren and Larisa when they came back into the room. The man who was introduced as Jim Metcalf was holding forth on politics and economics, but his eyes seemed to linger appreciatively on the front of Larisa’s dress.

  “Anyway, what these fatheads in the Congress don’t get is that Reagan’s finally got it right. You’ve got to stop feeding the welfare system and start giving the private sector incentives to perform and grow. These assholes better get onside, or they’re going to get their butts kicked.” The others in the group nodded and murmured assent, though Warren guessed most of them were hoping Metcalf had talked himself out. His blue blazer was flecked with bits of ash from his cigarette, and his face was flushed under his wavy gray hair from the sun and drinking.

  “Hey, our economics professor says that the deficit will be a couple hundred billion a year by 1990, and there’ll be riots in the cities. Of course, he also seems to think that Jimmy Carter was a misunderstood genius.” Warren tried to break the obvious tedium.

  “Listen, it’s those moron economists who got us into all this trouble in the first place. And forget about the deficit. We’ll grow our way out of it.” Metcalf dismissed the national debt with a wave of his hand. “If I’d have listened to economists, I would’ve sold all my orange groves years ago. Best thing I ever bought.”

  Warren perked up at the mention of oranges. He’d made a nice profit trading orange-juice futures once. “Oranges? You own orange groves?”

  “I own more orange trees than Tropicana, sonny. More than anyone outside of Brazil.” Metcalf said this while staring directly at Larisa’s chest.

  “Wow!” Warren replied with a slight edge. “That’s impressive. I guess you must do a lot of business in the futures markets?” Warren stepped in closer to Metcalf.

  “A lot of business? Sonny, I pretty much am the futures markets!” Metcalf waved his hand, and cigarette ash described a snowy arc toward Larisa. “In fact, when I trade, everyone else better get out of the way!”

  “So you hedge?” Warren couldn’t quite understand whom Metcalf wanted to impress. Everyone knew he was wealthy, but Chas’s grandfather could buy and sell Metcalf several times over.

  “Oh, sure, I hedge—or play around a little…” Metcalf winked, but Warren wasn’t sure at whom.

  “Play around?” He couldn’t see the harm in encouraging Metcalf..

  “Lemme tell you, the greatest thing is when there’s a cold snap in Florida. Drives everyone crazy! I love it. The markets go wild!” The man was clearly enjoying a private joke.

  “Wild?” Larisa joined in, which seemed to turn up the lights even brighter.

  “Oh, yeah, lemme tell you! You see, the USDA calls us if there’re freezing temperatures to ask what kind of crop damage we might have.” Metcalf dropped his voice into a conspiratorial tone. “So first we buy up a ton of contracts, then tell the USDA the freeze is gonna kill all the oranges! It’s like candy from a baby!”

  “So you make money on your futures contracts and on your crops when the crop loss estimates drive prices up?” Warren replied, purposefully talking like a simpleton.

  “You’re not as dumb as you look, sonny! Yup! We tell ’em fifty, sixty percent crop loss, and it’s like a moon shot! Of course, it’s not our fault if the freeze wasn’t as bad as we thought, now is it?” Metcalf was actually rubbing his palms together in glee. “Easy money, lemme tell ya!”

  “Doesn’t the USDA check on your estimates?” Larisa seemed awestruck.

  Metcalf let out a roar. “Check? With who? They’ve got like three people in the whole state! Hahaha! Nah, those pencil pushers just call us and ask!”

  Warren had suspected that growers manipulated the markets every couple of years and made fortunes off speculators who didn’t have an inside connection. Tariffs kept foreign oranges out of the United States, and Washington lobbyists made sure that the tariffs stayed in place. It was all one big inside game. Warren didn’t even know if it was illegal, or how anyone could prove anything.

  “That’s fantastic,” Warren said with heavy sarcasm. “What an ingenious fraud!”

  It seemed Metcalf finally realized that he’d pretty much admitted to being a con man. “Hey, what’s your name again?” Metcalf looked at him with a scowl.

  “Warren Hament,” he replied neutrally.

  “Hament … Hament. Your family from Denver originally?” Warren knew there was a socially prominent family in Denver named Hamment “No, sir. Only one m. My grandparents were from Baltimore.”

  “More like from hunger.” Metcalf looked at the curtains when he made the insulting insinuation.

  Warren knew exactly what it was, an anti-Semitic slur, and he felt his blood rise. “You’re right. I don’t guess I have the impeccable pedigree that you so obviously possess. You probably have AKC papers and everything. Do you have all your shots?”

  Metcalf stood still, speechless.

  Larisa stifled a giggle. Warren took her arm and led her toward the couch.

  “Jesus, Hament. Make friends and influence people.” Larisa had a big smile on her face.

  “Wow. He gives capitalism a bad name.” Warren finished his last drink. “I gotta get out of here before I get so drunk I invite Cornelia skinny-dipping. I’m in training for the Hobe Sound Wimbledon Open, or something, you know.”

  “Oooh, you athlete types get me all worked up.” Larisa took Warren’s arm and whispered in his ear, “I can hardly stand it.” The hairs on his neck stood on end.

  After making the rounds and saying good-nights, Warren wandered off toward his room, with Larisa and Eliza also heading to their bedrooms. He felt awkward and blew them both a kiss at his door, disappointed that he’d missed the chance to get Larisa alone. He fell into bed dizzy, after a brief wrestling match with his toothbrush and his pants. It had been a fascinating day. The Harpers were at the top of the food chain and fit seamlessly into the old-money world that Warren had viewed from the periphery most of his life. Metcalf was from some old WASP family, but he was as crooked as a guy selling fake watches in the Grand Bazaar in Istanb
ul. Even so, Warren liked most of these people. They seemed extremely comfortable in their own skin, and most were completely open to new social or business contacts, as long as you didn’t try to join their clubs. Best of all was Larisa. She was almost too good to be true.

  The sun, exercise, and wine overtook him, the open windows admitted the sea breeze, and the sound of the fountain gently crested the surf, lulling him inexorably to sleep.

  four

  Warren woke to a perfect Florida morning, and breakfast was served on the patio by the pool. A uniformed man brought Warren coffee and juice, and a table was laid with a big bowl of fresh raspberries and strawberries, and a selection of cereals poured into soup tureens. Warren ladled out some Rice Krispies and Rice Chex, dumped the berries on top, then filled his bowl with milk. Several copies of The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal were on the table, and Warren idly perused the basketball standings. The Knicks were in fourth place and going nowhere. He flipped to the front of the paper and read about a bus crash in India. It did seem there were an awful lot of them. A kid at Brown had collected each news item in a notebook, and he had well over a hundred.

  Chas came bounding onto the terrace from the beach, dripping wet and drying himself with a huge, yellow towel. He plopped down at the table and drained a glass of juice.

  “Okay, how far did you swim?” Warren knew Harper had almost unbelievable stamina, and an absolute devotion to the endless repetition of any endurance sport.

  “Don’t know. Maybe three miles. Not much surf today. Did a couple hundred sit-ups though. Push-ups too.” Chas loved to tease Warren about his lack of commitment to working out.

  “You’re amazing. What, did you get up at five o’clock?” Warren shook his head.

  “Nope. Quarter to six. How’d you get so lazy?”

  “Mine are a cerebral people. We exercise our minds and rest our bodies.” Next to Chas, he felt indolent.

  “Yeah, that’s how Israel got built in the middle of the desert. Well, eat up, our first match is at nine thirty, second round’s at one. Semis and finals tomorrow. No time to dawdle.” Chas hopped to his feet. “I’m taking a shower. I’ll meet you out front in forty-five minutes.”

  Warren put his sunglasses on and grinned up at Chas. “Yassir, boss.”

  Harper tossed his damp towel lightly into Warren’s face and waved. “Aloha.”

  Warren stretched out in the chair, soaking in the warm sun. He could never figure out why his father had settled in the Northeast. Florida, California, Arizona—those he could understand for a tennis pro and coach, but New York? He idly contemplated what life would have been like growing up where it was always summer.

  His reverie was interrupted by the dripping of cold water onto his forehead. He opened his eyes and saw Larisa’s face, upside down, holding a melting ice cube over him. He groaned.

  “Wake up, lazy bones! It’s a beautiful day!” She had a big smile on her face, and Warren sat upright. She was wearing a one-piece, black Speedo bathing suit cut high on the hip, which showed her body off to good advantage. Her legs were long and slim, her stomach flat, her breasts full. There was a sleekness to her that seemed almost seal-like. She pivoted away from him, took three long strides, and executed a graceful dive into the pool. There was barely a splash, and she didn’t surface until she’d reached the far side.

  “Do you have gills or something?” Warren doubted he could make it halfway to the other side underwater. He had to shout.

  She swam back briskly, with the smooth form that seemed more than casual. She looked up at him, her hair now slicked back from her face.

  “You look like you swim a lot.”

  “Actually, I was a rhythmic gymnast in school.”

  “Wow. That’s amazing. I have absolutely no idea what that means, but it sounds like it could be very painful.”

  “Not really. C’mon, come in. I’ll race you.”

  Warren got out of the chair. “What is it around here? Everyone wants to compete. ’Let’s race,’ ’Straight sets from the Karrs.’ Whatever happened to sport for sport’s sake?”

  “It’s more fun when you’re trying to beat someone.”

  “As long as you win, right?”

  “It’s better.”

  “I suppose. The Olympian ideal. I’m supposed to race a rhythmic mermaid. Hah!” He eased himself into the pool and swam a lap, which still left him a little winded. He begged off the race. They climbed out and stretched on the warm stone coping, the air still except for the sound of the surf drifting in. Warren peeked at her, lying still, the water beaded on her legs, which were slightly flushed from the exercise and the sun. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled the three feet to her. He leaned over and, as she started from the sudden shadow blocking the sun from her face, kissed her. She kissed back and put a hand behind his neck.

  “I’m glad I met you, Larisa Mueller,” he said, withdrawing slightly.

  “Mmm. Me too.” She smiled smugly and closed her eyes again.

  “You coming to see the tennis?”

  “Nope, I’m going to work on my tan. I have faith in you two. Bring us home a medal, a prize, a trophy.”

  “I will make the fair lady proud.” He stretched.

  She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, her eyes meeting his in a even gaze. “Can you believe anyone would ever leave here?” She broke an arm free and swept it broadly around the pool and house.

  “It is kind of hard to assimilate. I keep thinking we’re at some big hotel in the off-season, so no one else is around.”

  “The service is better than at any hotel I’ve ever been in.”

  “I guess that while some people were thinking about Vietnam or Korea or marching on Washington, there was a whole class of people who just kept the money machine rolling. Now, all the others have decided to buy in, but all the good seats are taken. It’s like Corelli says, the masses will be left hunting for grubs.”

  “Are you really going to try to get a job in one of the investment banks?” She cocked her head to one side.

  “Sure. It’s not like I have any kind of a head for real business. I barely made it through all those case studies and systems analysis courses in school. There’s really nothing productive I can do for a big company that actually makes something. So, I’d rather just sit down at the card table every day and see what I can do with whatever I’m dealt.”

  “You think it’s like gambling?”

  “I don’t really know. Trading commodities was nothing but gambling. It seems that the guys who trade bonds at least have to use their minds sometimes.”

  “Yeah, and it happens to pay well.”

  “That’s a big plus. I never really thought about money until I made some, and now it doesn’t seem like a bad thing. I tried the art world, and it seemed like the only honest places are the museums, and I just don’t know enough for that. What about you? What are you going to do? Are your motives so pure?”

  “I’m not sure. I may wind up interviewing for an investment banking job. I definitely like the idea of getting paid well. I mean, I went to law school at UVA for two years, but I hated it, and it was so expensive, so I took a job at Sandoz in international marketing and reporting. Anyway, I probably could adapt to Wall Street pretty well. I had to deal with them all the time. What a pack of animals.”

  “Ha!” Warren laughed. “I don’t know if the Street could adapt to you.”

  “How’s that?” Her forehead crinkled.

  “Smart. Articulate. Beautiful. Gentle. I don’t know how they’d handle it.”

  “Oh, you don’t know me. I’m not so gentle all the time.” A slightly evil smile played across her lips.

  “Are you saying that you’ll do anything to get what you want?” He grinned at her and feigned horror.

  “Absolutely. Ruthlessly.”

  “And when do I find out if I’m something you want?”

  “I think I’ll leave it up to you to figure that out for yourself. The element o
f surprise.”

  Warren smiled, then looked at his watch. “Well, if I don’t get changed and meet Chas, I’ll be on the menu tonight.” He got up and looked down at her appreciatively. “Or…”

  She smiled and tossed her towel at him. “You keep your mind on the tennis, I’ll manage the melanin. Git along now.”

  Warren and Chas had an easy first match, playing two brothers who argued quietly between themselves about court coverage. There was plenty of time to kill, so they drove back to the house and joined the girls and Cornelia on the beach. Chas’s mother was in fine condition, her slightly heavy-boned body taut from a regular exercise regimen. She had commandeered a half dozen lounge chairs and a room-size white tent from the pool house, and the staff had erected it all. In the tent was a buffet lunch, complete with a bar. Warren took a quick swim in the surf to wash away the sweat, then dried off and heaped a plate with lobster rolls and salad.

  After a brief exchange about the walkover match, Mrs. Harper gave Warren some tips about the afternoon’s opponents, who included Jim Metcalf, who evidently had a weak net game.

  “Oh, great, you mean I get to play against Mr. Metcalf?” Warren had felt a bit of regret about their conversation. Metcalf may have been an anti-Semite and a market manipulator, but Warren was a newcomer and a guest.

  “Don’t worry. He doesn’t expect to win. Just be nice.”

  Warren sat in the sand and ate, and the conversation drifted on the midday sun and the ocean breeze, with no one making an effort to be clever, but simply enjoying the good food and the warmth. It was hard to feel any pressure or tension in this setting, and Warren snuck a glass of wine when Chas wasn’t looking. Cornelia talked to Warren about Millbrook and horses for a while, but he wound up dozing contentedly.

  The afternoon match was sluggish, and Warren’s mind was not focused on anything except how to get Larisa alone that night. They barely beat Metcalf and his guest, a strong player from California, thanks mostly to Chas’s boundless energy and his diligently hitting drop shots to Metcalf every chance he got and the older man missing almost every volley he attempted.