Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street

by Offit, Mike

  Ultimately, if the junk bonds and the leverage failed, the shareholders would be wiped out, and Uncle Sam would foot the bill. There would be no obvious theft because all they would see were the collapsed junk bonds and real estate; the “bad” mortgages had been sold off long ago. The losses on the loans had been well reserved for, and $200 million or even $1 billion was a drop in the bucket over time. It looked to Warren as if this had been going on for at least four or five years. By the time anyone caught on, it’d be impossible to accurately reconstruct the whole scheme. The press was right. These guys were brilliant.

  Then why was Anson dead? Had he stiffed them? His share did seem pretty large. Did Dougherty figure out the scam, and is that why he was dead? Maybe that’s why Anson was so interested in Bill. Or maybe Anson was worried about Warren’s finding out. It all made his head spin. One thing for sure, Warren didn’t want anybody connecting him with any of this. He returned the files and stopped snooping. The thought of all that money, sitting in that quaint, little bank, felt like having Aladdin’s lamp in your bag, but not knowing if the genie was good or evil. He wondered what would happen when, or if, Scholdice or Beker or whoever went looking for the cash and discovered it was gone. But then, why would they if they’d already gotten their share? All that money must have been Anson’s. There’s no way they’d all trust each other with that kind of untraceable money.

  Sam decided to stick around New York for a while longer. She never mentioned the money, although Warren kept her informed about his research, and under the guise of returning to her own investigation, she reaffirmed with her attorney that no one could, without proof of a serious financial crime under local laws, compel the banks in Liechtenstein to divulge where the money had been transferred to or by whom. She had tried for years to track the real Anschutz through Liechtenstein, and even with clear evidence of his crimes in the United States, the banks and their government ignored the FBI and Sam’s lawyer, not even replying to their inquiries.

  The happy couple were falling into a pleasant rhythm—Warren would take off for work in the mornings, and Sam would run any errands they needed. She’d spend an hour or so on the phone to Carlos at the lot, where business was good. She had turned it into a real moneymaker—Carlos was putting over $8,000 a month into her account and still holding a surplus. The biggest volume of business came from the film studios. They would use her cars both as props and as executive transportation. Carlos had solved one thorny problem when a studio production head was arrested with an ounce of cocaine and two prostitutes in one of Sam’s Maserati sedans. The police wanted to impound or even seize the car, and Carlos had gotten his cousin, a detective, to intervene. Two days’ use of an antique Corvette had convinced the officer to lay off. Carlos was a hard worker, and trustworthy, and she called the bookkeeper and told her to give him a 40 percent raise and a $50,000 bonus. He was speechless—this was double the amount he’d ever made in a year.

  “Listen, I may not make it back to L.A. for a while,” Sam had changed the subject while Carlos stammered his thanks into the phone. “Could you send me out the rest of my shoes?”

  “I think maybe this is serious, no?” He had been on the lot for six years and had helped her learn about the business when she’d taken it over. He never minded doing things for her. “I am a lucky Mexican, Samantha. I have a good job and a good boss, a green card, and my family with me. I drive nice cars, and you know how Mexicans are about cars. For you, I will do anything.”

  “I don’t know, Carlos. Maybe it’s for real. I hope so.” She was telling the truth.

  “I hope he is a good man. Not like the last one, eh? He better treat you right.” Carlos had hated Artie and was offended at the abusive way he drove the cars he was constantly borrowing. He had ruined the clutch on a Lotus Turbo Esprit and worn the rubber off the tires of at least a half dozen others. Carlos had said to Sam that a man who treated automobiles that way would not treat women or clients any better. She hadn’t listened.

  “I think he is, Carlos. He has a good heart. His job makes him angry sometimes, but he is sweet to me.” As she was talking, she realized, for the first time, how much she was in love with Warren. It wasn’t just that he was funny and they had a good time, and that he was successful and generous. She loved the way he was basically naïve and hated the way his work was making him jaded. He never made her feel as if he were a threat to her in any way, and he genuinely paid attention to her happiness. “God, I hope he is,” she had added, and Carlos, three thousand miles away, had smiled into the receiver at the fullness of her voice.

  forty-six

  Almost three months passed, and there had been no noise about any problems at Warner or Golden State. Warren noticed that some of their business started slipping away to other dealers, particularly Sacramento, the brokerage arm of the huge insurance company. They were raising a lot of money for Warner, and without Anson pushing, Warren hadn’t wanted to get Weldon involved. He knew that the two banks were not what they seemed, and while he wasn’t about to tell anyone, it was easy to let the business go elsewhere. When Malcolm questioned the drop in production, Warren attributed it to other firms’ being overly aggressive to get the banks’ business, and to Sacramento’s willingness to sell lousy credits to its dumb-money retail system. Philo Clarke, a business school classmate, told Warren an amazing story. Sacramento’s mortgage sales desk had knowingly misrepresented a big new deal they had sold to thousands of small investors through their retail brokerage system. The head trader, for whom Philo worked, had balked, insisting on a letter from the sales head acknowledging the head trader had nothing to do with the obvious lie. “He says, ‘You idiots are gonna get sued!’ So the head of sales says, ‘Fuck the moms and pops—we’re making seven goddamn points!’ and signs the letter,” Philo had told Warren. Within three months, all the small investors who’d bought it had lost over $50 million of the $75 million they’d invested and filed a huge lawsuit. Sacramento had been forced to make them whole, losing $53 million. It was par for the course at what Philo called “this fucking wire-house, black-Irish, boiler-room bucket shop.”

  Warren had picked up the slack in production with Emerson Insurance, helping Schiff put together a whole restructuring of their asset base, and into a bullish stance on interest rates. Schiff felt strongly that the country was on the brink of a huge recession, if not in one already, and wanted to position to reap the maximum benefit if long-term interest rates declined to facilitate a recovery. Tax reform had began to hit, and Schiff was convinced things would get rough by mid 1989. Despite his usually conservative bent, they went on a shopping spree together, buying mortgage derivatives and treasury strips, and extending the maturity in every one of the firm’s accounts. Schiff reasoned that his company had a huge surplus, and if his bet was wrong, they would still be in a solid position. Warren concurred. Still, his own paranoia made him document Schiff’s full understanding of the risks he was taking with a comprehensive acknowledgment letter Warren had Weldon’s legal department prepare. Schiff had obtained his board’s consent—essentially he was risking only the gains he’d made by being right on the markets so far. It was a good gambler’s strategy.

  One day, Schiff had taken Jed Leeds out of $157 million of principal-only strips. These were securities that paid no interest, but received all the principal from a pool of FNMA-guaranteed mortgages. They sold for fifty-two cents on the dollar. If interest rates went down, it would become easier for the homeowners whose mortgages were in the pool to refinance, and the prepayment rate on the pool would climb. This meant that Schiff would receive the principal back, at 100, much faster than projected, making him a big profit. If he was wrong, and repayments slowed down, he would be hurt, getting his money back more slowly. What made the mortgages attractive was that they were already prepaying so slowly that little room was left for them to get any slower.

  Jed had been long in the position for two months as the markets had fallen during a lull in the building rally. The
bonds had lost almost ten points in value, and he was desperate to sell them. When Schiff had agreed to buy them, Jed ran across the floor and kissed Warren on the top of his head. He paid Warren a $2 million gross commission. Malcolm called Warren into his office to congratulate him. It was the biggest single commission anyone could remember on one trade. Warren had to admit he was happy. Everyone on the floor was high-fiving him, and even Annlois came by to congratulate him.

  “Say, Annlois,” he had said before she left, “have you got a second?” She looked to both sides and, seeing that no one was paying attention, bent over his desk. “What was it you wanted me to find in that computer?’ Warren couldn’t help it—she was the only link between him and Anson’s accounts.

  She looked nervous and whispered to him, “I knew that Anson was seeing your girlfriend, and that he kept his dates on his calendar and some e-mails. I wanted you to find out for yourself, rather than from someone else. You’re a nice young man. I’m glad the two of you aren’t together anymore. I don’t like her very much. She’s pretty, but uses people.”

  Warren nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Ann. I did find the calendar. But the police told me about Larisa first.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it was for the best. We had already broken up.”

  “You know, Warren, it’s funny the way Anson would always ask Larisa about you. It was like he wanted to know what you were thinking about him all the time. He used her too, I think. He was a hateful man.” Annlois looked sad.

  “I don’t think anyone could use Larisa Mueller without her knowledge and consent. Not her.” Warren smiled at Annlois, and she patted his hand warmly before she walked away.

  Gossip. Interoffice romance. Not $200 million in a European vault. The woman had given him the secret to protect his feelings. He couldn’t help but chuckle. It had been completely personal. Not just business.

  In the odd way things always seem to happen, Warren ran into Larisa the next day. He hadn’t spoken to her often since their parting tryst. He hadn’t told her that he knew about Anson, hadn’t let on that he knew her whole indignant scene about the pills had been a charade. Why start an argument? She knew the truth, and he didn’t mind her seeing him as a sap.

  He had gone to the thirtieth floor for a short meeting with members of the Insurance Group. These analysts appraised the values of the stocks of all the major publicly held insurance companies, and they had decided to add Emerson to the list of companies they followed. If they gave it a harsh review, it could hurt Emerson’s stock price and their business, but a good one might help. Warren had been relieved that they were positive on the company.

  Larisa worked on the thirty-second floor, but the copy center was one flight below. She ran into Warren as she headed for the staircase with a pile of reports. He stopped to talk, and the others continued on. She looked tired, and he could tell that she’d been working hard. She’d put on a few pounds too. It actually made her even prettier, softening some of the hard edges.

  “So. How’re things?” she asked brightly. “I hear you’re setting all kinds of records down there.” She smiled at him.

  “Yeah. Things are going pretty well. I can’t complain.” He shrugged.

  “I always knew you’d be a star. And so fast.” She started her familiar gesture, a playful push on his shoulder, but caught herself and dropped her hand.

  “Well, I think that karma—or fate, or whatever—has made things happen a little quicker than they might otherwise. But you gotta take what you can get, right?” That two men who had either stood in Warren’s way or disliked him had died was not lost on him. He had no illusions that his rise hadn’t been aided by their bad luck.

  “I’ll say.” She stopped for a minute and looked into his eyes for a long moment. “You know, I miss you, Warren. Things are so different now.”

  He looked at her and couldn’t hide his discomfort. “Well, I think it worked out for the best. You know what they say, ‘The truth will set you free.’” He regretted the shot. “I may have been wrong about what I said, but I do think things will be better for both of us.”

  “You weren’t wrong, and I’m sorry for what I did. But I’m not sure you’re right about this. We were good together. I always felt like you supported me, and you know I was always on your side. We just lost sight of each other.” She reached out and brushed her fingers over his hair. He flinched. She saw it and turned away. “It’s a shame.”

  “Larisa, the past is the past. Whatever you did or I did doesn’t matter now. We’ve both got our careers, and you’re going to wind up with everything you want. I know it.” He felt a patronizing tone creep into his voice, but in reality he felt little for her other than sympathy. She’d picked out Combes as the coming star and hitched up to it, and now he was gone. That he was married hadn’t mattered. She’d probably believed him when he’d undoubtedly told her he was going to leave his wife. It was a miscalculation, and she’d paid the price for it, but she was on her way to becoming a huge success on her own. He couldn’t deny a big part of him had held strong feelings for her, but Sam was incredible, and he was as happy as could be. Larisa would have to sort it out for herself. He thought about Chas Harper for a moment—Larisa had picked him over Chas and a sure life of wealth and comfort, then dumped him for a shark like Anson. Who could figure it? Warren always led with his heart.

  “Look, I’ve gotta get back downstairs. We’ll talk later. I’ll call you.” He turned toward the elevator bank.

  “I know. You should know that I miss you, that’s all. Take care.” She said it with a finality that he couldn’t miss. It gave him a pang in his stomach, but the relief was stronger. She walked to the staircase, and he watched her long, slim, muscular legs climb slowly out of sight.

  forty-seven

  The light shocked him awake, and startled, Warren twisted his neck. He instantly knew it would be stiff later in the day. “What? What is it?” He turned to Sam, who had turned on the lamp next to the bed and was sitting bolt upright

  “I thought I heard something. I was up, but I thought I heard something in the other room.” Warren shushed her, and they both sat tensely, listening. There was no sound.

  “I’ll go look,” he said wearily, and eased himself out of bed. He walked over to his closet and reached up to the shelf. His hand came down with a steel-framed tennis racquet.

  “Who are you expecting? John McEnroe?” She laughed at the sight of him, in his boxer shorts, hair tousled, holding the bulky, silver weapon in front of him.

  “If there’s a burglar in the house, he’s going to get a circumcision.”

  She laughed again, but looked worried. “Be careful. Want me to come? Why don’t you call the doorman?” She started to get up.

  “No doorman after midnight in this building. You stay here. Just be ready to call the cops if you hear me yell, ‘Let! First service!’” He opened the door slowly and stepped into the dark hall. He carefully searched each room, but found nothing. The doors were locked tight. It was unlikely anyone other than Spider-Man would have climbed up the façade to the tenth floor, but he checked the windows anyway. They were secure. While he was up, he walked to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. He thought about getting a glass, then just pinched it open and drank from the container.

  “It’s so gross the way guys do that.” He had to gulp fast and lean forward not to spill the juice.

  “Jesus!” He said, wiping his mouth. “You scared me.”

  “Oooh. You coulda spit orange juice all over me if I was a burglar.” Sam nodded toward the racquet, which was on the table between them. “Nobody to smash?”

  “Nah. Everything’s shipshape. You must’ve been dreaming. Personally, I keep seeing visions of Herr Schlusmann inviting me into the showers.” He put the carton back into the fridge and picked up the racquet. “Whoever it was woulda been in big trouble.” He made some chopping and slicing motions. “I would’ve used that Connors punch volley first,
then kicked him in the nuts.”

  “If you’re such a hotshot tennis player, how come you’re not a pro?” Sam opened the fridge and took the juice out, then hunted for a glass.

  “I dunno. Concentration. Desire. Killer instinct. I clearly lack them all. Just not that kind of material.” He shrugged.

  “Well, now that we’re up”—she put down the glass and moved toward him—“and there’s no cat burglar in the house”—she was now pressed against him—“and you’re only in those little shorts”—she pulled the waistband—“maybe we can work on that ‘desire’ part you clearly lack.” She teased him through the thin material, then looked down. “Hmmm. You look like a promising student.”

  forty-eight

  “…Just give us twenty-two minutes, and we’ll give you the world.…”

  The clock radio showed six thirty, and Warren reached out feebly to silence it. First, he had to move the blue boxer shorts that covered it. His head felt heavy, and his neck was sore, every fiber of his being screaming at him to lie back down and go back to sleep. Sam stirred, her hair fanned out over her face and the pillow, the arch of her haunch draped by the sheet. He couldn’t help but admire her in the soft morning light, her even features and arched brows, long legs and slim hips sweeping to full breasts carried by a strong rib cage and wide shoulders. She was a thoroughbred and slept the sleep of the dead.

  “Traffic and weather together on the…” He located the right switch and hoisted himself to head for the shower. He was on autopilot as he bathed, shaved, brushed, combed, spritzed, and dried himself, picking out a charcoal, subtle Glen-plaid, single-breasted suit, white shirt, and rust-colored Hermès tie. Sam had introduced him to patterned socks, and he slipped on a black-and-maroon-check pair, then laced up the Bally wing tips. A final check in the mirror told him he looked every bit the young investment banker, and he went to the kitchen for coffee.