by Offit, Mike
“Yes. I’m sure … I … yes…” Warren saw her eyes go to the computer, which was open, but dark on the desk. “Well, you know, actually, I can probably handle the rest. I just thought you might be able to … I mean, well, is that your computer? Anson had one just like it.”
“Oh, no—”
She cut Warren off. “Yes. He did. He was always telling me how he wanted to get one for his house, so he wouldn’t have to carry it so much. Did you know his house had a name … Ledges, I think. Yes, that was it. The Ledges. I think it had a lot of stone or something. He loved that name. Anyway, I can handle this.…” She swept her hand around in an arc. “You were nice to help. Oh, don’t forget your computer.”
Warren put his coffee cup down and paused. Hadn’t the police searched this office? Wouldn’t they have taken the computer? What was going on?
“Ann, wait a second. What’s going on? Why is this still here? Come on.” Warren felt he was missing something.
“Oh, Warren, you’re right. I almost forgot. When the detectives were searching, they asked about Anson’s computer. They decided he must have had it with him because it wasn’t here or at his house. The nice-looking one—Wittlin?—said it must have gotten stolen. You better be careful with yours. Anson usually had me hold on to his when he was out of the office. They’re so expensive.”
Warren made up his mind to go with the flow. She wanted him to have that computer for some reason and had just told him the password. He picked up the computer with one hand, and his coffee with the other. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Annlois.” He saw that she had a dust rag and was wiping Anson’s desk off as he left the room. He noticed an empty brown paper shopping bag from a food delivery—maybe Anson Combes’s last meal—sitting by the trash and put the computer and power cord in it.
* * *
It took only two tries. Ledges had opened the security lock, and Warren had access to the entire hard disk. Dozens of files were in the Lotus program, each named for deals Anson was working on or had completed. Warren spent four hours going through the spreadsheets, finding a maze of numbers and calculations. He was careful not to disturb anything. In the word processor, he found endless letters and notes, and even a chapter of what appeared to be a novel Combes had started. It was about an incredibly handsome CIA agent in Europe, seducing a lot of women, mostly with big breasts. It would’ve sold well, Warren mused. He also found most of Anson’s e-mails, and there were several with Larisa, making plans to see each other. They were all couched as meetings to discuss deals, but the undertone was clear.
After seven hours, and a severe backache, Warren noticed it was two thirty in the morning. He was going to be exhausted when he picked up Sam. He was restless though, and Annlois’s nervous and tense behavior had whetted his curiosity beyond sleep. He kept plugging away and left the word-processing files about midway to check out the personal calendar.
Dozens of names and phone numbers were in the address book, some familiar, some not. He found his own name and address when he searched for it. He found one odd item—a group of telephone numbers with no identifying names, just initials next to them, and someone’s name, Klaustag. At the end of the address section were two columns of three numbers each, all with different area codes. He scribbled them down on a notepad and kept probing through the date finder. There was nothing unusual there, except a lot of nights out of town, and an awful lot of United Airlines flights. Warren wondered what would happen to all those frequent-flier miles.
As a lark, he picked up the phone and dialed United’s toll-free number. After a short wait, he asked the operator if she could check his mile total and gave her the number from Anson’s computer. She said she couldn’t access that information, and he hung up. An idea cropped up, and he scrolled forward in the appointments section and found several plane and hotel reservations for upcoming trips. Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, all Ritz-Carltons. There was a convoluted reservation for a trip to Saint Kitts with his family in February, and a trip to Munich to visit the parent company after that. Anson went to Switzerland at least three or four times a year, often renting a car to drive from Munich and returning it in Zurich, an expensive proposition. Weldon was 50 percent owned by a large German bank, and they often had conferences or “off-sites” that were really just boondoggles, European-style. He noted some closing parties scheduled for deals, and various birthdays. It was pretty much a dead end. The reason for Annlois’s giving him the machine and her hints was eluding him, at least for now, and gave up. It was after three. He shut the computer down and washed up. Whatever it was, it would have to wait.
forty-one
He woke up dog tired, and the day dragged on like death. At lunchtime, Warren slipped out of the office and went shopping for a gift for Sam. He wanted to impress her. At Tiffany, a salesman made him wait while he dealt with a trio of Japanese tourists. Warren complained that he’d been there first, but was ignored. Annoyed, he walked across the street to Van Cleef & Arpels.
As soon as the guard let him through the door, he realized he was in over his head. There were no real display cases, just a few ornate, gilded desks with carefully dressed salespeople seated at each. The manager, an elegantly dressed blonde in her forties, was on him immediately, asking if she could be of assistance.
Warren let a long pause stretch out before he answered, “I’m not sure. I hope so.” He was aware that he was on the other side of the sales table when he shopped, and he emulated his best customers—he tried to be pleasant, but to keep the salespeople off-balance at all times.
“What is it that you are looking for?” The woman gave him a small, tight smile.
“A welcoming present for a friend. Nothing outrageous.” He smiled his most charming smile and was led to the first desk on the left and seated in a French baroque side chair upholstered in a white moiré satin. The manager introduced him to Mrs. Denoyer, the saleswoman, and stepped away.
He was shown South Sea pearl earrings for $30,000, and a black-pearl ring for $25,000. He tried not to blanch at the prices—they were crazy. The pieces were beautiful, but he guessed he could buy the identical items for half the price on Forty-Seventh Street, where the discount jewelers were, and still be getting ripped off. He was enjoying the show, however, and Mrs. Denoyer, a petite and attractive woman, tried on every piece so he could see it in situ. After ten minutes, he explained that he wanted to think over what he had seen and would come back again later. She said she understood, and the guard passed him back to the street. Warren tightened the belt of his camel-hair coat against the wind and found a taxi. He was going to consult an expert.
Back at his desk, he dialed the interoffice number for Howard Steinman, the top salesman in Los Angeles. Howard was actually responsible for his meeting Sam in the first place—he had booked the Bentley for Warren that led him to her rental lot. It was also well-known that Howard had gotten jewelry deals for almost every trader in New York and had helped his biggest client negotiate the purchase of a seven-carat diamond ring for his fiancée. When Howard picked up, Warren explained the stuation, keeping the details to a minimum, lest gossip start too soon.
“I don’t wanna spend too much. I just met her.”
“Big hitter like you? C’mon. I say seven to ten grand.”
“Hey, that’s fine. I was at Van Cleef and Arpels, and everything was twenty or thirty.” Seven thousand suddenly sounded cheap.
“VCA? Anything there you liked?” Howard was totally immersed. He called the store by its initials like some kind of old friend.
“Yeah. There were some earrings. Kind of leaf-shaped. They were diamonds and emeralds, though. And they were twenty-one five.” They had been beautiful.
“Okay, here’s the plan. They’ve got everything at VCA. It’s the best for quality, and you’re paying for the brand and the designs. They keep their value. Go in again, ask for Mrs. Durand. She’s a stone buyer. It’s not her real name. She’s a Polish Jew. Tell her diamonds and aquamarines, ten grand tops, and tha
t I sent you in. I buy a ton of shit from them out here, and she used to work here. Monica’s like a fucking billboard for them. You’ll be fine. She’ll show you something with a fifteen price tag, offer it to you for ten or eleven as a favor. Pay her ten or ten five, and it’ll be yours.”
“Howard, c’mon, you don’t back-bid at a store like that.”
“Oh, come on, cut me a break! Jewelry? It’s worse than this business. I’m telling you, just use my name, and tell her your limit. Seven five won’t buy you anything in there. Oh, yeah, be sure and give her your Weldon card first. She’ll figure you’re young, you’re just getting started, and you’ll be back. They don’t discount for the big fish, but a young guy? First the girlfriend, then the wife, the mistress, and the second wife. Building brand loyalty—it’s good business.”
“You sure?”
“Warren, it’s not a problem. Trust me. Where’d you meet her?”
“Who?”
“The girl.”
“I told you. You weren’t listening. Los Angeles, actually. Wilshire Boulevard.”
“I knew it. All the great trim is out here. How’d you pick her up?”
“I don’t know. It was at the Budget lot, I was turning in that car.” Warren was distracted by the blinking of another of his lines, but Kerry picked up the call. She shouted over that it was an account’s back office calling for a price, and he spun his finger in the air to indicate that he would call back.
“Wait a minute. The Budget lot on Wilshire? With the high-end cars?” Howard sounded incredulous.
“Yeah. You got me the Turbo R, remember?”
“Not the girl who owns the lot? You mean Sam Kensett?”
“You know her?”
“Know her? I’m in fucking love with her. Everybody’s in love with her. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. You slept with Sam Kensett? I don’t fucking believe it.” Howard was actually moaning now.
“Hey, Howie, you’re starting to sound like Goering. Please, don’t be so crude. Miss Kensett and I are seeing a bit of each other. I prefer to leave it at that.”
“Oh, no. Nononononono! She’s perfect. She’s a goddess. Every producer and director in Hollywood has tried to date her. You can’t buy this woman some cheap bauble. For her, a fucking tiara! A rock as big as your nuts! I cannot believe this! When are you coming out to give this to her?” Howard was excited. “Can you bring her to lunch with me or something? I just want to touch her once. I’d beat off for a week, I swear!”
“Look, Howard, I don’t want you telling everybody about this. C’mon, I didn’t know you knew her.” Warren figured if word got around, the whole LA office would find a way to scuttle him.
“I’ll keep quiet. But only if you take naked pictures of her for me.” Howard laughed.
“I don’t think so. I’m not coming out there. She’s coming here. I’ve gotta pick her up at the airport tonight.”
“Tonight? You’re going to spend the night with her tonight? She’s flying to New York to see you? I’m going to die. I can’t stand it. You must have a two-foot dick. She’s so hot—no, she’s beyond hot. I’d give my right testicle for a night with her. And my left one. Afterwards. I wouldn’t ever need them again, anyway, and Monica wouldn’t notice. Maybe I could say I was you. It might work. I’ll charter the Concorde. You’re so lucky. It must be because my dick is so small. I mean, I’m Jewish. But, so are you. It’s not fair. I’m going to throw up.”
Warren was laughing. Howard was the best ego builder in the world. That’s why he was also one of the best salesmen in it. “No, Howie, mine’s nothing so special. Stop whining. You’ve got a beautiful wife, two great kids, a big house in Bel Air, and Dumb Ed Johnson for your regional manager. Life could hardly be better.”
“Just wait. You’ll marry this girl, have kids, buy the big home and the cars, then you’ll wake up one day and realize you haven’t had a blow job since the Carter administration, like me. Then it’s prostate cancer and you’re out. She takes the insurance and marries some big shvartzer who calls her ‘baby’ this and ‘baby’ that, and she does everything for him in bed because he’s not too embarrassed to ask. You’ll see. You’re better off just beating off. It’s cheaper, and you don’t have to redecorate—ever. Trust me. I know.”
“Oh, Howard, come on. I love curtains. Besides, she’s a shiksa, so maybe we won’t spend too much time on window treatments. Look, I gotta go. If I’m going to go hondle at Van Cleef, I better get moving.” Steinman wished him luck and clicked off. Warren grabbed his jacket, asked Kerry to watch his lines again, and headed for the elevator. On his way down he marveled at how quickly he’d decided that $7,000 or $8,000 or even $10,000 wasn’t too much to spend on a little welcoming gift for a girl he hardly knew. Then he started having his doubts. Not about the money—he was becoming accustomed to being able to afford almost anything at all. He was wondering if Sam would find it vulgar or something. His mother had said jewelry was always appropriate, but he doubted his dad had spent more than $200 on anything for her. He decided to get the earrings and figure it out later.
Mrs. Durand was happy to see him. The rule is, once a customer comes back a second time, there’s going to be a sale. Howard’s name also worked like magic. She brought out a pair of aquamarine and diamond earrings that were subtle despite their sparkle. They would set off Sam’s hair and eyes perfectly. She’d started at $14,000, and he’d gotten them for $12,000. As she was writing the sale up on his credit card, he mentioned that there was a small possibility the recipient might not accept them. Mrs. Durand smiled and said she doubted there was a woman alive who would turn down these earrings from such a handsome young man with such good taste. But, if it happened, she’d be happy to give him a refund. Warren thanked her and slipped the small box into his inside jacket pocket. He checked that pocket every five minutes all afternoon.
At that moment, Warren had $206,000 in his bank account. That represented his life savings, mostly from his bonus last year and commissions after he had laid out a $100,000 down payment to buy his apartment. By a rough calculation, he expected close to a million dollars in his January check, less about $450,000 for taxes, even if Malcolm shafted him on the business he’d been doing without a formalized payout scale. As a team player, he knew that it would be bad form to bring formalizing this up until after bonuses were paid. The firm usually notified all employees of their bonuses between Christmas and New Year’s and paid out in the first week of January. Tensions were building around the floor for the traders and finance people, who, unlike salesmen, were not on commission and were paid according to management’s whim. Bonuses were generally 70 to 90 percent of a person’s pay for the year. Warren felt the tension of uncertainty, and marveled that traders could survive the stress of a subjective bonus every year.
Warren knew that, just on his account base before Dougherty’s death, his second-half commissions were over $500,000 even if he got nothing else. He’d done much more than that with the new accounts since. The $12,000 didn’t seem so daunting. He slipped a $5 bill in the cup of a panhandler on the way to meet the car to the airport and wished him a Merry Christmas.
forty-two
American flight 63 landed right on time. Warren had the driver pull the sedan up to the baggage-claim exit and went to wait at the gate. He took the driver’s sign with him and wrote out KENSETT in big block letters. Sam was the second one off the plane, after a nervous-looking Harrison Ford, and smiled at the sign. She was wearing tight black jeans and a big white shirt, with a small duffel bag in one hand and a navy officer’s blue dress coat on her shoulders. Her boots made her even height with Warren. He grabbed her around the waist and gave her a long hug, which she returned, with a short kiss, as other passengers bumped past them.
She told him that she had checked one bag, and they strolled arm in arm downstairs to the carousel. The flight had been okay, and she watched the movie. The guy next to her had tried to pick her up, and she’d tried to pick up Harrison Ford. Both failed, she
said, sad to report. Warren smiled.
Her bag came out quickly, and they were in the car within twenty minutes of her landing. Warren went from being apprehensive about seeing her to complete comfort. She was relaxed, and it put him at his ease.
“I think it was the Bloody Marys that did it,” she said when Warren remarked she didn’t seem the worse for wear. “I just love that Mr and Mrs T. mix. I think I had four of them. I wanted to get my money’s worth. I had the steak, which was okay, and a hot-fudge sundae, and one of those little bottles of Kahlúa. Did you eat?”
“Yeah, I did. At twelve o’clock.” Warren hadn’t even thought about dinner—he’d been preoccupied. He had noticed Sam had a penchant for reciting menus.
“You hungry?” She slipped her hand around his waist and curled up against him.
“Hey, I can always eat.” He turned toward her, and she met him in a long kiss. “Mmm. It’s good to see you,” he whispered in her ear.
“And it’s good to be seen.”
“That’s warm. That’s loving.” She nudged him in the ribs. Warren thought to himself things were going their way. The ironically named Van Wyck Expressway had actually been moving, a major miracle, and the Grand Central Parkway was wide-open, the traffic light, three smooth lanes leading to the shimmering city.
* * *
“Doesn’t it strike you as strange?” The light was streaming in through the tall French windows, the view of Central Park South crystal clear in the crisp, cold air. Sam was sitting on top of the covers, with a plate of toaster waffles and syrup on her lap, eating them with sticky fingers. They had spent the night getting reacquainted physically, and they were both happily fatigued, having slept in until mid-morning.
“A little, I guess. But this is New York. People get killed here all the time. Whole families get caught in the cross fire. It was just a coincidence.” Warren was leaning back against the headboard, his arms behind his neck, taking in the view. Sam’s dark hair was tousled, her long legs showing from underneath the Rangers T-shirt he’d lent her. Her angular features caught the sun, and Warren felt for a moment a desperate loneliness, almost a panic at the thought that she hadn’t been here yesterday, and that there might be a time when she was not here again.
