Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (12 page)

Warren felt himself respond immediately. Her hair tumbled around her face in the soft lighting, which set her hair ablaze, caught her high cheekbones and emphasized her full lips. She had gotten even wilder in the bedroom after that first night in Florida. She liked to be physical, in control, and when he was with her, the rest of the world just disappeared. Every encounter was an amazing, exhausting workout, and she wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed to do anything.

“In your case, I don’t mind being … well, you know … managed,” he said, leaning over to her and kissing her.

“Mmmmm. Do you think there’s something wrong with me? Some guys can’t handle that kind of thing.” Her hand was under the table now, working its way higher.

“Some guys? You do this a lot?” Warren was only half joking. He didn’t know a lot about Larisa’s past.

The hand suddenly disappeared from his thigh and reappeared on the table.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She tossed her hair and sat up straighter.

“Umm … come on! Nothing! I mean the way you said that. It’s like…” Warren was fumbling for words, realizing there was no way to avoid digging an even deeper hole for himself. So he stopped talking.

“It’s like what? Like I’m a slut or something? Like I fuck every guy who looks at me? You know a lot of guys
do
look at me.” She was flushed red, and her eyes were tearing.

“No, no. God, no! I was just kidding! I mean, you said, ‘Some guys can’t handle that kind of thing.’ I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean anything like that!”

It didn’t matter, she was crying now.

“Please, please, Larisa, forget it! It was just banter. It must be because I spend my day with a bunch of crude assholes. God, I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, come on! I know how lucky I am. I’m in love with you. You know that.” He was getting upset now too. He could not stand to see her crying, angry, hurt.

Her hand went from her face and took his, interlacing fingers. She tried to start speaking, but had to stop and take a sip of water.

“I’m in love with you too,” she said. “But this is not easy for me. You need to understand that.”

He didn’t. But he was willing to try. “I want to make it easy. What do I need to do? You are an amazing girl, and I want to make everything easy for you.”

“Warren, I am not as amazing as you think I am. I’m just me. I’m not that smart, and I’m not that special. You’re doing so great with everything. I have a long way to go.” She was wiping her eyes.

“What the hell are you talking about? You get straight A’s at Columbia, you’re gorgeous, you’re funny, you’re generous—did I mention gorgeous? Oh, and you’re gorgeous too.” He pulled her hand toward him and reached out with his other to smooth her hair. “And I love you. If I love you, you have to be pretty goddamn amazing.”

She laughed a little, then wiped her eyes and nose with her napkin. “You are so good to me. I don’t deserve it.”

“Stop saying that. Why would you say that?” Warren was mystified. So many of the world’s most spectacular women seemed to think so little of themselves.

“If you really knew my family, maybe you would understand more.”

Warren didn’t say anything. He only knew her family from pictures in her apartment—her stunning older sister who lived in South Africa, but would be coming back to New York soon; her father, who looked like a German movie star; and her mother, who could have been Garbo’s sister. There was also a boy in one picture of the whole family, but he had no idea who he might be, and she had never mentioned him..

“Why do you say that? I know your parents are incredibly proud of you. I hear you on the phone with them.”

“Yeah. Great. They’re proud of me. I’ll be rich someday, maybe. Or marry a rich guy who can take care of me,” she said derisively. “My fucking family.”

Warren was more than a little stunned. This was totally new ground. As if on cue, the waiter deposited their entrées and, with an innate Gallic sense of privacy, somehow picked up on the moment and retreated immediately, without even asking if they wanted fresh pepper.

Warren pushed his plate of duck aside and leaned in closer. “What’s going on? I don’t understand. I know they’re divorced, but you seem to get along great.”

She looked as if she had turned to crystal, all the color gone from her face. It was as if at any moment she could break—shatter—into fine, glistening shards. “Have I ever told you about my brother?” she asked almost defiantly.

“Your brother? No. You never told me you had a brother. I know about your sister.…”

“Yeah, my sister. She got to take off to Le Rosey in Switzerland in ninth grade. I got to stay home and deal with the jocks and Jamie. Jamie Mueller,” Larisa said, spitting out her brother’s name as if it were sour milk.

“What do you mean? Was he younger or older?” Warren asked.

“He was two years
older
than me. But he was out of control. Lazy, arrogant … impossible. And my parents just left it to me to deal with him. I was little Miss Perfect. Straight A’s, sports, yearbook editor … he smoked dope and liked to shoot squirrels and birds with his stupid, fucking pellet gun. He was kept back twice and kicked out of all three private schools in Charlottesville.” She had put down her silverware and was trembling a little.

“Wow. How could they leave it up to you? You were his younger sister, not his mother.” Warren tried to imagine a teenaged girl attempting to control a difficult boy her own age.

“They were too busy with their own careers. And my dad was always screwing around with a TA or someone. JJ looked just like my dad, too. I think that just pissed Mom off even more.” Warren was about to ask why she used the past tense, but Larisa kept on. “So, I tried to keep him from getting drunk, or driving and getting arrested, or breaking into people’s houses for fun. I swear, boys are the most pathetic little animals on the planet. So we had this big argument in senior year. He was in the same year as me, for God’s sake. He wasn’t going to get into any decent college anywhere, and even UVA told my dad Charlottesville was out because of his arrest record, not to mention his academic issues. Even though my mom was in their HR department! I told Jamie he was lazy and stupid and had no ambition, and that Mom and Dad were ashamed of him.”

“Sounds like you told him the truth,” Warren added, trying to be supportive.

“Yeah, I told him the truth.” Larisa shook her head. “He went in and had a huge fight with my dad, who called him a loser. So he proved I was wrong. Guess what that moron did?”

“I don’t know. Rob a bank?” Warren shrugged.

“Hah! If only. No, he went and enlisted in the army the next day. My dad tried to get them to release him, but Jamie told him to butt out. It was 1974. The fucking war was over! But old JJ wouldn’t have made it to Vietnam, anyway. My dad’s panic was for nothing. He got drunk the night before parachute training and somehow screwed up his equipment and died in a field somewhere in Kentucky.”

“Oh, God. That’s horrible.” Warren winced at what this must have done to her and her parents.

“Yeah, well, my dad, who never accepts any blame for anything, dumped the whole thing on me. Said I should have never said he had no ambition and was stupid. Forget that
he
called Jamie a
loser
. Anyway, that was it for my parents. They both blamed each other and also blamed me. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. We’re civil to each other now, but if I could’ve gone anywhere else for school, I would have. Free tuition is a big deal.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to say.” Warren was a little flustered. “I guess I should have asked before. I mean, how could I not know something so important about the woman I love?” He took her hand. “I’m … I’m…”

“Sorry?” Larisa finished for him. “Don’t be. From then on I knew I was on my own. My brother is dead. My parents are both alone. I’m in New York, and nothing,
nothing,
will ever make me go back there. We talk like we’re close, but we’re not. Don’t be sorry. Don’t.… Hey, I’m lucky.”

“Lucky?” He was confused.

Larisa reached across the table and took his hand again. “Yes, I’m lucky. I found you.”

Warren wasn’t sure, but at that moment he thought he could feel his heart breaking.

twelve

The next six weeks passed quickly. Warren was officially assigned to the sales desk and sat in with each salesman in the group for a few days, listening, and occasionally even helping take an order or run some analytics. Warren was surprised when Malcolm Conover called him into his office for his year-end review, which he hadn’t expected for at least another week, and said his bonus was going to be $70,000. Warren flushed a little. It was huge, but someone like Dougherty could make that in a week.

“Get used to making a lot of money, Warren. I think you’re going to do well. You’re promoted to AVP immediately, and you will start on your own accounts next week.”

Warren couldn’t help but wonder if all his fellow associates who weren’t bombing out had been told the same thing.

Malcolm immediately changed the subject from money to Warren’s new account list, and a change from salary and bonus to full commission. His initial account package included Glendale Federal and Warner Savings, two decent-size and active West Coast savings banks. Both had expressed a desire to be covered out of New York. Dutch Goering, a senior New York salesman, also covered a West Coast thrift, Golden State. In addition, Warren was assigned Monument Management, a medium-size mutual fund company, and Emerson Insurance, a smaller life insurance company in New York. But the best had been saved for last: he would also back up Bill Dougherty, the senior salesman, who covered a half dozen of the biggest accounts in New York, and two big state pension funds, Wisconsin and Ohio. Dougherty’s backup, a kid named Walther, had been caught passing stock tips from Corporate Finance to his friends. He claimed not to realize it was inside information, but once the New York attorney general had been informed by a client, that was it for Walther’s time at Weldon. Amazingly, he’d been hired at Drexel Burnham almost immediately.

Warren knew being assigned to back up Dougherty was a huge opportunity. It almost cemented his future as a big hitter at Weldon. When Doughtery retired or left the firm, Warren would get the list. If he could build good relationships with the accounts, he might push Dougherty aside and get primary coverage on them even sooner. Warren knew some important business was to be done with the State of Wisconsin pension—they were looking at completely overhauling their investment strategy. If he could get to know their senior people, particularly Barbara Hayes, it would serve him well.

Warren also liked Bill. Dougherty was pleasant, about six feet tall, with sandy hair that he slicked back, and ice-blue eyes, a patrician-looking fellow whose family had been figures in New York City politics and finance for several decades.

Bill was not a detail-oriented salesman, but enjoyed solid relationships with his accounts. Warren had already tried to emulate some of his style, but with more substance. Every day after six, Warren went to the gym to work out, then spent several hours reading after dinner. He spent most nights with Larisa at his apartment, since her classes started much later than he had to leave—she would generally still be sleeping when he slipped out the door in the morning. When she didn’t come over after school, he occasionally went back to the office in the evenings, to study and to chat with Pete Giambi or other research people, trying to learn as much as he could about the markets.

When his bonus check cleared, he sent his father $5,000, and his brother’s hospital $3,000 earmarked for the genetic research Danny was leading. Warren also sent along a note promising to stop in next time he was in Houston. He took the remaining thirty-odd thousand after taxes and bought treasury bills. Dull, but safe and liquid. Exactly what you would try to talk accounts out of buying—low margin for the firm.

Warren developed a routine. First thing every morning, he would call each account, giving them a three-minute summary of what was going on in the markets, and mentioning the major “axes,” or positions, that the trading desks were pushing. He might also fax written-up trade ideas. If he got a positive response, he’d follow up with more information and calls.

His first giant trade had been with Monument. He had convinced Nathan Leonard, the senior portfolio manager, that he should sell his GNMA 10.5 percent mortgage securities to buy GNMAs at 9.5 percent. Interest rates were dropping, and prepayments would likely accelerate, making the higher-coupon bonds less attractive. Nathan had agreed and sold $600 million of GNMA 10.5s and bought the same amount of 9.50s, at a price difference of two points. This had also fit the trading desk’s needs perfectly, as they were doing a structured security deal with the 10.5s. Leonard had done all the business with Warren. It was one of the biggest swaps anyone had ever done at Weldon. It made Warren a hero. He was assigned a $600,000 commission. Based on a 15 percent payout, he quickly calculated that this one trade would be worth some $90,000 in real money to him.

After Warren had completed the trade, he sent a memo to Leonard, thanking him for the business. He told Leonard that the trade idea had actually been Giambi’s and suggested that Warren and Pete set up a lunch with him soon. Warren knew that, once a smart portfolio manager met Giambi, he’d do more of his business with Weldon, just to get Pete’s ideas. Portfolio managers on the “buy side”—Warren’s clients—were all judged on how their portfolios performed relative to an index of their peers. Good ideas that worked meant better pay and advancement for them.

Warren sent copies of the memo to Giambi and the manager of Fixed Income. Later that day, Warren was surprised when Anson Combes stopped by his desk to chat. Warren noticed that the salesmen around him all stopped talking, eager to hear what was said. Combes was short, just under five-six, but looked like a prototypical banker, reasonably fit, with carefully cut, thick, whitish blond hair, piercing grey eyes, and thin lips behind which lurked even, pointy, white teeth. He wore rectangular, black-rimmed glasses that gave him an air of diligence rather than a nerdy look, and his face had softened around his sharp features to make him seem a bit jowly. His head always seemed to be pushing forward off his neck, a posture that imparted a sense of aggression and restless energy that women evidently found attractive.