by Offit, Mike
“Well, Warren,” Malcolm started as he sat behind his desk, “you’ve had an interesting year.”
“I’ll say.”
“Yeah. But it’s been a pretty good year. You’ve done a good job with your own list, and a nice job covering for Bill. I’m sure you’ll do just as well helping pick up the slack for Anson until he is replaced.”
“Thanks, I’ve tried.” Warren didn’t like the choice of words. Covering for Bill. Picking up the slack. He hunched forward a little. It felt like a lottery drawing.
“Anyway, the point is, you’re in a unique situation. Your own sales credits add up to seven hundred and forty-two thousand in compensation for the year. You’ll be receiving a check for that, less your seventy thousand draw, in ten days, after New Year’s. We’ve also decided to add something for the extra work you’ve done. That will be an additional twenty percent or so, another hundred and twenty-five thousand. We think you’re doing a good job, and coming along fast. This is the most any second, full-year Fixed Income associate has ever made at Weldon, over eight hundred thousand dollars in total comp, and we think you should be proud.” Malcolm looked up from the sheet of paper he was holding with a smile. “How do you feel about it?”
Warren actually felt kind of numb. He’d just been told he was going to earn over three-quarters of a million dollars at age twenty-eight, more than ten times what he’d expected to make just two years ago. But he was pissed. So pissed, he was sure the tingling in his face was evident as a flush. He started to talk, but stopped himself. Malcolm was looking at him, eyes wide-open, in an earnest look of almost paternal pride. Warren composed himself.
“Well, Malcolm, I want to thank you. It’s a fortune, and I’m glad you gave me the opportunity to be sitting here. I am truly grateful. I know that the final numbers are in, and there is nothing that will change them. I am curious, though, about one thing.” Warren heard his voice quavering just slightly.
“What’s that?” Malcolm’s look had changed to one of carefully furrowed eyebrows.
“Last year, you told me there was a cap that I didn’t know about. This year I increased production 50 percent with my accounts, helped Bill book huge trades, and then in just two months, I produced almost nine million in gross with Bill’s list. That’s as much as he did in the first ten months. On his nine million, he got paid about a million three. How come I only get one twenty-five? How did you all come to that number?” Warren’s tone was reasonable, not at all angry.
“Well, Warren, you are a second full-year associate. Which reminds me, you’ll be promoted to VP in March. Generally, there is a formula by which second-year associates get paid, but you were on commission. We weren’t going to add anything, actually, because, if you keep Bill’s list, next year the sky is the limit. It’s a great opportunity, one we want you to have. But I fought with Anson and Jamie to get this for you, and Carl agreed. We felt twenty percent of your earned commissions was generous. We hope you’re happy.” Malcolm handed Warren the sheet of paper, which spelled out the numbers. Warren knew the real number was not even close to 15 percent.
Again, Warren composed himself. Those four—now Anson had somehow been included posthumously—had basically stolen about a million dollars from him, and he could do nothing about it. In fact, he was supposed to thank them for it. He spent a few moments examining the sheet. He was now so angry he could hardly contain the shaking.
“I understand, Malcolm. And I don’t have any more questions. You all have been generous with me. Maybe I’ll stop by his grave and thank Anson personally.” Malcolm recoiled a bit at the comment. “I’m sure I’ll justify your confidence in me next year. Really.” Warren stood up and shook Malcolm’s hand.
“Warren, you should be thrilled. That’s a lot of money for someone at your level. Have a drink. Celebrate. I thought I saw that girlfriend of yours down here earlier. Take her out to dinner. You’re a big hitter.” It was typical that Malcolm wouldn’t even know that Warren and Larisa had broken up. Warren guessed Conover would make at least $3 million, working three or four days a week, and doing almost nothing except having endless meetings and looking for problems where none existed.
Warren felt his blood pulsing. “That’s a great idea. That’s just what I’ll do. Thanks, Malcolm.” Warren turned, opened the door, and walked slowly back to his desk.
Kerry looked up and blanched slightly. “Want to talk about it?”
“Fuck no. I want to kill someone. I’ll get over it. Besides, that fucking piece of shit Combes is already dead.” Warren plopped down in his chair.
“Easy, boy, easy. Keep it in perspective.” Kerry reached across the desk space and patted his hand. “Just try to keep it in perspective.”
“I will. Hey, maybe the guy who’s knocking off people around here will take me out next, and then I’ll get some real perspective. It’s just that right now my foot would like to have the perspective from about three feet up Malcolm’s ass.”
“Nice, nice. Come on—no one’s going to kill you except yourself if you don’t calm down. And you’re just part of a great tradition. You’re still new at this. Next year, they can’t screw around. Although I have heard they’re considering dropping the commission system.”
Warren’s head snapped up.
“Just kidding. Why don’t you go get a soda and think about it. Whatever they paid you, I’ll bet you there isn’t a single person that graduated with you that even made half. Chill out.”
Warren decided that she was right on all counts, and to take a walk. “You know, you’re absolutely right. I am gonna take a walk, and we are all grossly overpaid. I’m a jerk. Thanks.”
“It’s always my pleasure to help a dope realize he’s a dork. See ya.” She smiled and waved as he got up.
“I’m sorry. This is all beginning to get to me. I’ll be fine. Thanks. You’re about the only friend I’ve got around here. I’m just not used to proctology yet.” He smiled at Kerry and picked up his jacket. “I’m outta here. See you Tuesday.”
“Okay. Hey, have a good weekend, big hitter.” She put heavy sarcasm into the moniker.
“Thanks, babe. Oh, and merry fucking Christmas.”
Nobody even looked up as he headed for the door.
The cold air was invigorating, and he headed toward Battery Park. It dawned on him that Kerry, whom he liked an awful lot, had probably earned more than twice what he had been paid. And, to be honest, he was already a much better salesman than she. He caught himself up short. These were miserable thoughts. The things he was saying and doing were completely absurd. He’d been paid a fortune for making phone calls and going out to dinner. Where did he get off venting steam at Kerry, or resenting what she made? She had been helpful to him at every chance and had never done anything to undermine him. He felt guilty for the nasty thought—he blamed it on the nature of their business.
What was the nature of this business? Wall Street was a label for the most avaricious and just plain vicious aspects of American, or even human, commerce. Yet, it thrived on a self-imposed image of respectability and honesty. Then, every couple of years, someone would get caught stealing millions or maybe billions in some trading scandal, and everyone would act outraged. Every seven years there’d be some huge financial crisis born out of some Wall Street scam. But wasn’t it the same in every business? Car manufacturers would be found to scrimp on some safety detail to save a few bucks, and a thousand people would die. Cigarette makers would purposefully lie about their own health research or even target their advertising at kids. How old was the saw about the butcher with his thumb on the scale? Everyone cheated. Everyone tried to take advantage. If you weren’t caught, you were called an aggressive genius. If you were, you went to jail. Unless you were in senior management, in which case the firm paid some puny fine and nobody got punished at all.
“Yeah,” Warren said out loud to no one as he strolled the sidewalks that hugged the windowed walls of the valley of the money spinners, smoking a cigar, with a pi
ece of paper in his pocket that said he was going to earn almost $900,000 this year, “this sucks.”
forty-four
It was hard to get much sympathy from Sam. She listened to his story, then shook her head in disbelief. “Hey, only a complete asshole could be unhappy making nine hundred thousand dollars in one year. That’s a fortune. God, my best year, I made four fifty, and I had to work like a dog and travel nonstop. And I was never allowed to eat! You’re being ridiculous.” They were facing each other across the living room. She was nestled in a big, velvet armchair.
“I know. But it’s not just the amount. It’s relative. I mean, that extra money went somewhere. It went into the pockets of senior management. They know I should have gotten it. They just took it because they could. It’s not fair. Those guys are a bunch of jokers and bozos too. It’s not like they do much of anything. That’s the problem with a company like this—too much useless management.” Warren was whining a little, and Sam cut him off.
“I don’t want to hear any more about it. Fine, they stole your money. In the meantime, they left you with plenty. I can’t even believe you’re sitting here complaining about some guy who’s dead. He may have been an asshole, but he’s a dead asshole. If he was running around on his wife, so what? He’s dead and she’s loaded now. Screw him, he got what he deserved, right? Forget about him.”
“I can’t. This guy was up to something, and I can’t figure out what it was.” Warren had taken the small computer from Anson’s office off a shelf in the armoire and was plugging it in behind the end table by the couch.
“What do you mean?” Sam was confused.
“After he got killed, his secretary gave me his computer. He was working on all these deals, buying mortgages from banks, and reselling them. Only they were supposed to be bad loans—made to people who weren’t able to pay anymore, or on office buildings that didn’t have enough rental income to pay the mortgage off. But, when I checked through his files, it looked like most of the loans were actually in good shape. That’s why we were able to resell them at such a big profit. We’d buy a hundred million dollars’ worth of loans for eighty, to allow for the problems, then resell them for ninety-six or -seven, because there really weren’t that many problems. He did a lot of this stuff.” Warren had found it hard to believe Anson had been so clever, especially with smart and tough accounts such as Golden State and Warner. Whenever he’d done business with them, they would fight over every one thirty-second of 1 percent on the price of a bond, let alone 10 or 20 percent!
“So? What’s the problem? He outsmarted the banks and made you guys a lot of money. Everybody’s happy, right? Who cares?”
“I guess so. I mean, the banks got a lot of supposedly ‘problem loans’ off their books, and they’d already reserved for the losses. Weldon makes a ton of dough, and so do our partners on the deals. The guys who buy the loans from us are happy, ’cause they’re getting some good assets at a cheap price. I just don’t see why the banks thought all those loans were so terrible and were willing to write them off so quickly. There were some losers, but they threw the baby out with the bathwater.”
“Maybe they’re not as smart as you think.” Sam stood up and stretched.
Warren was on the sofa, with the computer on the coffee table. “Maybe not. But they also sold some really bad loans in other deals. Well, now it’s up to me to pick up where Anson let off. I just don’t get what it was that Annlois expected me to find in this computer that made her so nervous. Unless she just wanted me to see how shrewd Anson was with these deals.” He reached for the switch to turn the machine off.
“Maybe he had secret letters to his girlfriends on there. Hot, romantic letters. The kind you’ll be writing me when I go home.” She sat down next to him and wrapped her arms around him.
“Maybe. Actually he did have a few, but not very hot, to my ex! No, he just had some phone numbers that didn’t make any sense. No interesting letters, except one to bitch about the service he’d gotten on his BMW.”
“Oooh, phone numbers. Maybe you could call up and get a date?” She was trying to get his attention away from the machine by licking his earlobes. It was beginning to work.
“I tried. They didn’t work. Some of the area codes weren’t even real.” He started flipping through the files, quickly locating the numbers, and calling them up to the screen.
He was interrupted for a kiss. He pulled away slightly. “See?”
Sam pouted for a moment, then looked at the screen. She studied it for a second, then leaned closer, squinting. “Those aren’t phone numbers, Mr. Intelligent Banker, or Invasive Banker, or whatever.” She was using the keyboard to move the cursor down the page. “No. Definitely not phone numbers at all.”
“Well, if they’re not phone numbers, and those aren’t people’s initials next to them, exactly what do you think they might be?” Warren’s tone was condescending.
“Those, my sophisticated friend, are bank-account numbers. Private, Liechtenstein, numbered accounts. And their pass codes. And the name of the Liechtenstein trust that owns them, Klaust, AG.”
“What? Says who?” Warren squinted and leaned forward too.
“Says me. I know what these fucking numbers are. Artie had twenty of the little bastards. And these aren’t initials. See, each one has ten numbers, then three letters and more numbers. That’s the pattern. They’re at Wilhelms Landesbank—that’s WB over here. Nice building. Total pricks, though.”
“How do you know this? What are you talking about?”
“Look, when Artie stole my money, I hired a private investigator and forensic accountant to look for it and him. The Justice Department was after him too. There were about ten people trying to find him and get their money back. We managed to trace the money through these bogus ‘investment’ companies, to places like Panama and the Channel Islands. Most of it eventually wound up in Liechtenstein banks, because they have total secrecy and don’t give a damn who wants to know or why. I saw Artie’s little notebook, and it had all these numbers in it, just like those.” She pointed at the screen. “But I didn’t remember them. We couldn’t get anywhere without the numbers or the pass codes. One Swiss bank let the government in, but the money was already gone. We got nowhere. Yeah, I know what these numbers are. They’re how that slime took my life savings.”
“Wait a minute. He stole your money, then sent it to Liechtenstein, and nobody, not even the US government could find it?” Warren found this hard to believe.
“Yup. He had all this cash bouncing all over the world. And now, nobody knows where he is, but we know what he’s spending. Our money. Man, I’d like to kill him.” She slammed her fist into her palm.
“Jeezus. Liechtenstein banks. What the fuck was Anson doing with accounts in Liechtenstein banks?” Now Warren was beginning to understand what Annlois had wanted him to find.
“Hey, I don’t even know who Anson was, but it’s a pretty safe bet he wasn’t doing anything good. Didn’t you say someone killed him?” Sam poked Warren in the arm.
“Yeah. But it was a robbery. If they were going to kill him to get the dough, why would they kill him while he was screwing Bonnie in her apartment? It doesn’t make sense. Unless they had the numbers too.” He was confused. Who were “they” anyway? What money?
“Bonnie? You say that like you knew her well. Maybe you and Anson had something in common after all.” She smiled at him and grabbed at his shorts.
He pulled away. “Yeah, maybe we did. Maybe we did have something more than just Bonnie and Larisa in common.” His mind was far away. Maybe.
forty-five
By February, Sam had settled in, and Carlos had shipped her most of her clothes and cosmetics. Warren was stunned that her makeup and various potions took up two large duffel bags, while her clothes fit in one. His bathroom couldn’t come close to holding it all, and she’d commandeered the entire linen closet just for cosmetics.
“Hey, it’s always summer in LA. All my stuff is light.”
It was true. She had bought several sweaters and two coats, but was always cold. The first time Warren had offered to pay for a coat, she pretended she didn’t even hear him. The second time, she told him to stop, that she had her own money, and it was bad enough he was paying all the rent. She’d acquiesced when he’d pointed out she still had to pay the rent on her place in LA. “And a woman needs to take care of her skin.”
Warren was convinced all the fancy creams were exactly the same, whether they cost $5 or $75. Sam started a long explanation about the various ingredients and how they were processed, which he interrupted by asking her what she thought the chances were the Giants would sign a new cornerback. To his utter amazement, she replied, “Their secondary is totally solid. Why would they do that? Their defense is like a rock. The real question is if Morris can stay healthy next year and bring home another Super Bowl.”
“Who are you,” he asked, “and what have you done with my girlfriend?”
“I’ve always loved football. But, I have to be honest with you. I’m a Forty-Niner fan. I know that hurts. We can talk about it, but—”
“You never fail to amaze me,” he said, smiling broadly. “You can root for whatever team you want. And I’ll learn about face creams, if we can go to a few games next season.”
“If? Are you kidding?” She stepped across the small kitchen and gave him a big hug.
“Well, that’s assuming we’re still at liberty after our little master plan spins out,” he whispered in her ear.
“You call the signals, Coach. I’ll run the plays.”
* * *
Malcolm Conover wasn’t too pissed when Warren told him he was going to take another week off. He’d only had a few vacation days the previous year, to visit his dad. Warren had also done a great job following through all the trades before Anson’s death, and the firm had made so much money that it could afford the temporary drop in business that might result from his backup’s taking over. Kerry was more than competent, even only paying half attention to his accounts, and Malcolm also made sure he’d know where to reach Warren. It wasn’t as if there weren’t any phones in the Black Forest.
