Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street

by Offit, Mike

  “Thanks again, Mr. Hament. You gotta understand. The DA’s office won’t arrest anyone without almost a signed confession these days. We have to build an air-tight case. And listen, you be careful, okay? This is a rough city for you bankers these days.” Wittlin smiled, and they shook hands again.

  “Detective, believe me, everyone here has been a lot more careful since this all happened. Christ, the secretaries have a subway pool—no one rides home alone anymore. Take care.” The elevator door closed behind the man, and Warren turned back to the trading floor.

  He stopped in the bathroom and washed his face. The fear that had seized him was irrational. He hadn’t done anything. Wittlin’s inquiry was a wild-goose chase. Still, something in that security photo drew Warren in, something he felt he should have noticed, should have seen. He checked his wallet. Wittlin’s card was still there. If it came to him, Warren could call. But, he wondered, if it did, would putting Wittlin on the trail inevitably lead to Faaringsbank, and the snotty little Herr Dohlmer? Or would keeping quiet lead a young, maybe black man with a special mission and a peculiar talent to decide that Warren Hament’s house was the next one to burglarize?

  fifty

  Angelo was surprised to see Warren in the middle of a weekday afternoon. The building had a fair number of retirees and wealthy dilettantes, most of whom would often linger for idle chats with the garrulous Italian doorman. He was something of a font of gossip about the building, and if you caught him slightly off guard, or after a lunch that included a little wine, there was no telling what you might find out.

  “Hey, Mr. Hament, nice to see you.” Angelo touched his cap as he opened the taxi door. He was a little wobbly, a sign that his lunch break had been well catered by Mrs. Ingrisano. Warren generally tried to remember to bring home the tiny service bottles of wine from his plane trips to leave for Angelo. That way, at least the portion would be small. He knew Angelo’s favorite was a Sutter Home cabernet.

  “Same here, Angelo.” Warren climbed out, then paused to check the seat behind him, an old habit that had saved him countless umbrellas and several wallets. “How’s tricks? There are some bags in the trunk.”

  “Not bad, not bad, Mr. Hament.” The older man smiled under his salt-and-pepper mustache and motioned to the driver to pop the trunk lid. “Of course, not anything like you. Not at my age.” The lascivious grin was meant as a compliment to Warren’s taste in women. Sam was definitely a hit with the doormen and car valets on both coasts. Angelo struggled a bit with the two large shopping bags, which were not heavy, and Warren helped him with one.

  “Yeah, well, Angelo, you never know. This one looks like it might last a while.” He paused in the lobby, a beautiful marble hall with elegant neoclassical moldings and a circular plan. It always irritated Warren that the board of the building was too cheap to give the walls a good cleaning, but the patina of age was not badly served by the layer of dirt. It almost suggested an unearthed ruin, a Pompeian tomb, but with an automatic elevator.

  “Oh? I’m happy to hear that. Umm, your most recent … I mean, the young lady … before…” Angelo was lost for a tactful way to refer to Larisa, as he had obviously forgotten her name.

  “You mean Larisa, my last girlfriend?” Warren came to his rescue.

  “Oh, yes. Exactly. Larisa. Well, I hadn’t seen her around for a while, and what with the new one, I sort of figured…” Angelo’s grin was huge.

  “Well, we’ll see, won’t we, Angelo?” Warren handed him the $5 bill he’d gotten in change from the cabbie. “See ya.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr. Hament. And good luck!” Angelo called to the closing elevator door.

  Sam was out for the day. She’d gone to New Jersey to visit her cousin, a physics professor at Princeton. She’d hit Warren with a ball of socks when he’d asked if they were going to discuss the behavior of high-energy plasma in a supercooled nongravitational state, or just girl talk. He missed her, but there were some things he needed to do, and he’d taken the day off from work. She had been with him for months now, and he’d stocked up at the discount drugstore for himself and picked up some items on her list. He also bought three new pairs of shoes at Bally, which he dropped in the bedroom. He dumped the bags full of shampoo and moisturizers in the bathroom and had just sat down at his desk when the phone rang. He let it ring a second time before he answered it, a habit he’d picked up somewhere along the line.

  “Hi. Is this Warren Hament?” The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar, a circumstance that had never meant anything to him before. These days, it provoked a distinct bit of anxiety. He acknowledged his own name.

  “Hi, Warren. My name is George Charpentier. I’m with Julian Jameson, the executive recruiter. Do you have a second, or is this a bad moment?”

  “George, I hope I never have a bad moment. What can I do for you?” Warren couldn’t help it; his pulse quickened just a bit. He’d heard about these calls. These were the guys who did all the sniffing around for Street firms looking to raid talent from the competition. The right sniff could mean a multimillion-dollar contract. Warren wasn’t sure what his situation might be, but he wanted to listen.

  “Well, Warren, we’ve been retained by an investment bank here in town to help find candidates to build up their sales effort with the top Fixed Income accounts, mostly on the East Coast. Your name came up as a prime prospect. I wonder if you might like to pursue this. I know they’d love to talk to you.”

  Warren smiled at the here in town. He could never see New York as a town. “Well, what kind of firm is it? A major?”

  “Well, no. It’s a second-tier firm that is starting to invest in a push to move into the top tier. They are extremely strong in retail and have a presence on the institutional side.”

  “Well, it’s hard for me to respond one way or another. I’m pretty happy at Weldon. Before I can say yes or no to talk, I obviously need to know which company it is.”

  “Sacramento. They’ve gotten the okay from their parent company to make a three-year campaign to hit the top five. They just hired two top investment bankers from your shop. Senior guys. Generous terms too. They’re negotiating right now with a major name to head up Fixed Income. As far as capital is concerned, they’ve got far more than Weldon, and they’re also hiring new traders. It’s actually pretty exciting. You could wind up a key guy at a major player in a year or two.”

  “I know they’re a lower-tier firm now, but it’s hard to dismiss Sacramento. If the parent company is really behind them, they can’t miss. After Pru, they’re the biggest financial company in the world.” Between the life insurance company and the investment management and mutual funds business, Sacramento Mutual Life controlled $293 billion in assets. They were also one of the biggest clients of Wall Street.

  “That’s true about Sacremento, but both they and Pru are basically retail shops, they sell to moms and pops, not the big institutional money managers and institutions like we do.” Warren couldn’t help but have a bit of the bulge-bracket snobbery.

  “Yup. That’s true. But they want the prestige, and they’ve gotten sick of letting all the other firms take their fees and business because the investment bank they own can’t handle the assignments.” The implication of an inside track to Sacramento Life’s business was immense.

  “Would I get to cover them—the parent company? On commission?”

  “It’s possible.”

  The salesman at Weldon who covered Sacramento had earned $1.3 million in net commissions from that one account alone last year, without any favored-nation status. “Who would I be meeting?”

  “The first guy would be Bill Cunningham. He’s the head of Fixed Income Sales and Trading. Then Jack McDougal, National Sales manager. After that, it’s up to them.”

  “What’s their background?”

  “Well, they both came from B. H. Koger, I believe, when it broke up.”

  Koger had been a reasonably successful company about ten or fifteen years before, Warr
en knew, that specialized in trading US treasury bonds and agency debt, such as the paper of the Federal Home Loan Banks or Fannie Mae. It had been dissolved when it suffered some big losses and its partners pulled their capital before it was completely wiped out. He didn’t know much about the firm other than that its ex-traders had populated many of the Street’s trading desks after the blowup, and that most of them had retired by now or been fired. They were dinosaurs from an earlier age when margins were bigger, and the amount of money that had to be made to be considered a successful trader was measured in the single millions, not in the tens or hundreds. They were also known as an Irish firm.

  “Do these people know anything about mortgages or corporates? Or are they just agency traders and retail geeks?”

  “Ask them.” George clearly wanted to get Warren in the door for the interview, as any good headhunter would. You can’t make a sale if the customer isn’t in the store.

  “You know, George, I don’t think so. I think I’m going to pass.”

  “Really? Warren, this is a huge financial powerhouse, and they’d be ready to guarantee you much more than you made this year against commissions that could easily double or triple your pay.” Charpentier was not about to give up.

  “George, I get it. This was my first year making any real money. I’m cheap right now. I should be able to double my take-home next year at Weldon. So, they’d be getting me low. I made a million bucks this year. If they’d guarantee me two point five per for two years with a bigger payout and covering Sacramento along with two of the top-five pensions and another insurer in the top five and one in the top ten, we could talk. Otherwise, I’m only interested in a bulge bracket firm.” Warren had no interest working at a third-rate firm. They were filled with third-raters and legal departments that treated their own employees like the enemy, waiting for the chance to screw them.

  “Jeez, Warren, you sure you’re not a trader? Those are some pretty steep terms.” George was a bit deflated.

  “Hey, I didn’t call you. But I do have a question for you.”

  “Sure, what’s that?”

  “I heard you are consulting with Merrill on their associates program?” The giant investment shop had recently started overhauling how it hired college graduates, looking to broaden its reach from just the top colleges.

  “Yes, I am. They’re looking for college grads outside the usual finance or econ majors.”

  “Well, there’s a kid I interviewed here the other day who was really exceptional, but it turns out he can’t work here because his mother does.” This wasn’t true, but Warren figured a good turn for someone made up for a fib.

  “Really? So?” George actually sounded vaguely interested.

  “Well, I think he’d be a great fit for Merrill. He understood mortgage derivatives amazingly well for a college kid, and I know those guys are trying to beef up. You really should get him in there ASAP. I liked him, and I like his mom a lot. Whether or not things work out for me. His name is Harold Baker. His mom is a great lady.” Warren had given Annlois a thick publication on derivatives to send to her son and hoped he’d actually read it.

  “Hey, seriously, that’s great! I was just talking to the head of the program, and he was saying he wished they could use recruiters to screen all the applicants! Harold Baker. Tell him to send me his résumé, and I’ll get him into the rotation.” Warren liked the way headhunters called themselves executive recruiters. “I’m sorry you’re not interested in Sacramento. Let me know if you think any of your colleagues might be.”

  “Have you talked to Alex?” Warren figured something like this might appeal to the perennially depressed mortgage trader.

  “Hah! Many times. He’s afraid of his own shadow. I had him two mil at Bear Stearns last year and he said no. He’s a hopeless waste of time who would rather complain than do anything.”

  The two signed off, and still at his desk, Warren paid a few bills, then went to unpack the new shoes and toss the boxes. They were identical black wing tips, and he took the old, worn ones and stuffed them in the bag, making a mental note to see if one of the doormen wore his size. They weren’t in bad shape, but Warren had decided that buying new shoes every year or two wasn’t too big an indulgence. Not for a big hitter like him.

  fifty-one

  Warren felt like a nominee on Oscar night. Everything seemed to take forever. He was impatient, waiting for the moment, and everyone else was just lollygagging along. The past couple of months at work had drive him crazy, even the frantic trading floor seemed to move in slow motion. Sam noticed his agitation and tried to soothe him, but he was inconsolable. She said he was getting her all worked up too and wondered if he wasn’t just trying to transfer his anxiety to her. He denied it, but had to admit she was perceptive. He wanted her tensed up. This situation had to resolve itself eventually. Two men were dead, over $200 million was sitting in a foreign bank, and there had been no closure. He couldn’t stand it. It had been over six months, and everything seemed quiet.

  At the office, he told everyone how happy he was. He had a gorgeous girlfriend living with him, and they were getting along great. Sam had started taking graduate-level classes at NYU in Art History and Finance. Kerry made gagging sounds when he brought in three framed photos of Sam, including one of them together, laughing at the top of a ski run in the German Alps.

  He called Frank Malloran, who had heard all about him and Larisa, and was anxious to meet Sam. Warren asked if Malloran thought that the four of them should go out sometime. Frank said he’d ask Karen, but thought it might be a little awkward for her. He was willing to try, but sisters tended to stick together, and she might still be on Larisa’s side. He told Warren that Karen had commented that it didn’t take Warren long to find someone new, and someone so pretty.

  “God. It was Larisa’s doing. She was screwing some hotshot in Dallas. I’m not proud. She broke my heart.” Warren paused, his eyes hot. It was the first time he’d ever admitted this to anyone, and maybe even to himself. He preferred not to spread around that he knew about her and Anson. “Things weren’t great, but I loved that girl … uh … woman. See? I probably still do just a little. I feel sick every time I see her, even though Sam is a twelve in every way—definitely a huge trade up. Larisa may say she still loves me, or something, but, look—she’s a lot more calculating than I am. My conscience is clear, but my soul is still busted.”

  “I know, that’s what I said too. You might be the only truly nice guy in this business. But, let’s just … I tell you what. I’ll take you two out alone. What do you say? No Karen, no stress. okay?” Frank sounded buoyant.

  “Okay. Next week. I’ll check in with you.” They agreed and hung up. Warren sat and contemplated for a moment. He had wanted Karen to meet Sam, get a good look at her and report to Larisa. Why? What good would it do? It was hard for him to sort out his feelings about Larisa, but throwing Sam in her face for no reason would be pointless and mean to both of them. Maybe Frank knew that and was trying to avoid being involved in such a stupid plan. He was a great guy—maybe Frank was wrong about Warren and he wasn’t so nice after all.

  As luck would have it, it all made little difference. A week later, Warren called Sam up and said he’d be a little late at the office. He asked her if she would meet him for a drink, and maybe a bite. She agreed and came by on schedule at six thirty. He showed her around the empty floor, then escorted her downstairs and into the bar of the charming Italian place just across the street. He ordered two dry martinis, then two more, and was nuzzling Sam’s neck and talking about skipping dinner, which Sam rejected, when a big group of Weldon Brothers finance people came through the front door. Warren saw Larisa before she saw him and quickly became fully absorbed in what Sam was saying. He could actually feel it when Larisa’s glance fell on them.

  She surprised him. She strode right up to the bar, and smiled at him. “Well, Warren Hament. I’ll be damned.” She laughed warmly and patted his arm. “How are you?”

&nbs
p; “Oh. Umm, great. Great! Larisa, this is Sam. Larisa’s an old friend.” Sam threw him a fiery look, then turned and greeted Larisa with a firm handshake and a smile. He watched the two take each other in. His own comparison confirmed his feelings. Sam was a little older than Larisa, and life had given her more reason to be jaded and bitter, but it didn’t show. There was, at once, strength and vulnerability. He knew Larisa could see it too. Sam was formidable. She was smart, beautiful, and confident.

  “Hi. Warren has told me quite a bit about you. It’s nice to meet you.” Sam disengaged her hand and tossed her hair slightly. “He says you’re the smartest woman he knows.”

  Larisa smiled at the comment and looked at Warren. “Well, maybe he doesn’t know that many women.”

  “I’ve always been of the opinion that one can never really know a woman anyway,” Warren said, and dipped his head a little as if dodging a punch.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you, Sam. And good to see you, Warren. I’ve got to join the group. Keep in touch.” Larisa’s jocularity was so practiced that it took a sharp ear to hear that it was forced in any way.

  Sam watched Larisa as she walked away. “Well, now I know why you brought me here. Want to tell me what this was all about?” Sam looked at him, more curious than angry.

  “I swear to God, I had no idea she would come in here!” Warren had had a tight smile pasted to his face, which now faded to an exhausted grimace.

  “Come on. Cut the crap. What was this all about? You have something going on. I want to know.” Sam prodded him with a finger.

  “No, I really don’t. I’m not that strategic a thinker.”

  “Maybe you should be. She seems to be, from what you’ve told me. Man, I wouldn’t want to piss her off. Anyway, she certainly is attractive. Great calves.”

  Warren was always amazed at the details women noticed about other women. He figured whatever they were self-conscious about on their own body was what they noticed in others.