Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (3 page)

“Yep, well, maybe you’re right there, kiddo,” Ken said, sharing the unspoken thought. “I guess I always had a master plan and just didn’t know it! Anyway, let me know how you’re doing. I’ve always heard economics is a regular joy.”

“You bet, Pop. Listen, all I know is you’ve got to suffer if you want to sing the blues.”

two

When Warren got to the Hertz counter at West Palm Beach airport, the only vehicle available was a white Lincoln Town Car.

“Excuse me, but are you certain you don’t have anything available in any size that is a bit less immediately ethnically identifiable?” Warren asked the girl who was struggling with the endless ID number on his New York license.

“What?” She seemed confused by his request.

Sometimes Warren wondered whom he thought he was amusing.

After a few minutes filling out the new computerized forms, and a brief shuttle-bus ride, he was winding his way up the coast toward Jupiter Island and Hobe Sound at the end of a warm, sunny day. Although he spoke about Hobe Sound as if he’d been there, Warren’s only knowledge of the place had come from oblique references in the gossip columns, and the occasional mention of it by the wealthy women whose horses he’d groomed as a kid in Millbrook and at the equestrian barns out in Bridgehampton. It was evidently the winter home to the old-money WASP establishment, much farther up the social food chain than Palm Beach.

With his map in one hand, he mentally followed Chas’s instructions until he found himself crossing a small bridge. Shortly thereafter, a police car appeared in his rearview mirror, and only a few moments later he was signaled to pull over with a brief blare of the siren.

The uniformed and armed man who emerged from the vehicle came up beside Warren’s window and tipped his hat. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t recognize your car. Who are you visiting?” It wasn’t clear to Warren if this man was actually a police officer or simply a private security guard.

“Hi. My name is Warren Hament, from New York, and I’m visiting the Harpers.”

“Oh, yes. They’re up the road about a half mile on the right. The gray columns. Thank you, Mr. Hament.”

The man turned and walked back to his car, and Warren noticed as he drove on that he was followed and watched until he had pulled into the driveway. The short coral-gravel driveway opened to a circular car park that held an old Volkswagen Bug, an aging Mercedes sedan, and a Ford station wagon. The façade of the house was neoclassic, of cut limestone, surrounded by dense vegetation that made judging its dimensions impossible. As he rang the bell at the broad teak door, the security man was still watching from the road, waiting to see him greeted.

Galbreath Harper had founded the American branch of his family’s London and Edinburgh bank in 1935. What had been a small investment advisory grew into a major private bank and investment manager by the early 1950s. They were respected for their honest advisory work, and banking acumen. When he failed to have any sons and his daughter evinced no interest in the business, he sold the firm to a German bank for a reported $270 million. Since then, he had been an economic adviser to two presidents and had amassed one of the best collections of Pre-Raphaelite art in the world. He had donated a great deal of it to the Boston Athenaeum and made the seed contribution toward building a new wing, named for him, to house the works. Chas was proud of his background and did nothing to hide it. The Harper’s money came from an era when bankers actually helped build companies and create new and viable businesses. There was no doubt that he would work with his family’s fortune, although he might spend a few years learning about investments at a bank after graduation.

Like many of his generation who had succeeded after the Depression, “Gal” Harper built himself winter homes in Islesboro, Maine, and tiny Hobe Sound, Florida. His house, like all the other great structures along the beach, was referred to as a “cottage,” although it had nine bedrooms and was built of Indiana limestone in the style of a Roman villa. From the moderately scaled entry, a grand square foyer opened, its cream-marble floors worn smooth, but highly polished. Through a broad opening directly ahead was the parlor, or living room, decorated in bright yellow chintzes and a finely woven coir carpet, with fifteen-foot-high arched French doors that opened out to a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. The furniture was oversize and comfortable looking, and every table held a small collection of objects. Warren was invited in to wait in the living room, where he was drawn to a group of tiny, albino sea creatures nestled at the base of an imposing Chinese vase that had been wired as a lamp. He gingerly lifted a minuscule crab, its shell as smooth as stone, and every feature crisp, reproduced in perfect detail.

“My grandfather found those in Dakar. They’re all made of ivory—before it became illegal. Neat, huh?” Chas had come in from one of the wings.

“Incredible.”

“Yeah, they were made for some prince about three or four hundred years ago, and now here they are in our living room. You want to take a swim?” Chas was in a pair of the most garish swim trunks Warren had ever seen. They were surfer length and baggy, with bright blue, orange, and fuchsia flowers everywhere. In them, Chas’s lean, taut body looked almost sticklike.

“If you’re going to wear those, let’s hit the ocean. No shark will come within a mile of us. Bad taste.” Warren had noticed that Chas loved to be teased about his preppy clothes and purposefully played up the outrageous colors so popular with that crowd.

Chas laughed and directed Warren out to the foyer, then through a door that opened to a long, columned stone pergola. The house extended from two long Ls around a court, which contained a broad limestone patio with steps leading down to a massive swimming pool. To the left of the pool facing away from the main section of the house, the pergola fronted a row of guest suites. A matching pergola across the pool fronted steps to the beach, and the Atlantic Ocean. At the far end of the pool, a sculpture of a nude female figure at the center of a fountain created a gentle splash of water, which echoed within the court and blended with the sound of the breakers.

“That’s a Frishmuth, isn’t it?” Warren asked, pointing at the fountain.

“Jesus, Hament, Corelli is right. You do know everything.” Chas opened a door to one of the guest rooms. “That’s a Frishmuth, all right. Gramps evidently knew her.”

“Nah, I don’t know
everything
, I just paid attention in art history because the professor was so hot.”

Actually, Warren’s mother, Susan, an art historian, had taught him about painting and sculpture before she and his father had split up, and he’d kept the passion through school and an unpaid internship at the Guggenheim during the summer of his freshman year. When she had moved to Cambridge, she gave up custody of Warren to Ken, and since Warren’s brother, Danny, was at boarding school and spent his summers working in the top hospitals and labs in Boston, Danny wound up much closer to their mother. Warren stepped past Chas into the bedroom, a large, bright space with muted, pastel-upholstered furniture and the anomaly of two twin beds.

“Pretty shabby accommodations, wouldn’t you say?” Part of Chas’s charm was the way he professed amazement at the luxury that surrounded him. The windows on the far wall looked over a small, formal garden filled with roses and vines climbing over bright white arbors. The property was grand and yet the scale somehow livable, and every detail had been meticulously planned.

“Not bad at all. But I see you’ve provided at least one obstacle to my love life. Maybe you can prep me. What’s the best line to use when I’m on this bed, the girl’s on that bed, and I’ve got to get one of us to move? Really, I’m lost here. Help me.”

“Hament, I have faith. If you manage to get some girl back here, she’ll probably volunteer to push the beds together for you.”

“She may have to after this stupid tennis tournament. Let’s swim.” Warren shucked his travel clothes and pulled on a brand-new pair of Polo boxer swim trunks. Two nights before, he’d carefully removed the horse-and-rider logo, which he hated. There was something grasping about that trademark, given that Ralph Lauren was the son of a Jewish housepainter named Lifshitz and had probably never been within fifty feet of a polo pony. But there was no denying he had a genius for classic style.

After a race up and back in the pool, which left Warren the surprisingly winded winner, they toweled off, and Chas told him to change into his tennis clothes and they’d go practice a bit. Warren went back to his room and pulled out one set of Fred Perry whites that he’d laundered the night before, and his two Head racquets. He’d arranged to play against a pro at Crosstown tennis courts over the days before break, hoping he could shake the rust out of his game. The savings from his commodities earnings were getting a little lean, but he still had enough for tuition and rent through the end of school, and to keep up the checks he’d been sending to his dad every month. His mother’s new boyfriend, a lawyer, had relieved any need to help her, although, after meeting him, Warren doubted that would last too long. His dad never asked for any money, but Warren knew the alimony and his age were wearing on him. Warren hoped his mom would get remarried.

Chas was waiting for him in the white Volkswagen, with the top down and the radio on. He was wearing the kind of sunglasses that reflect the world in purple.

“It’s only a half a mile, but we’ve got to save your strength.” Chas gunned the reedy motor and shifted into gear, barely pausing at the gate before pulling out onto the single road that served the islet. They sped down the narrow lane for about a minute before Chas guided the car into the Hobe Sound Club. The grounds were perfectly manicured, and the clubhouse immaculate. Every piece of wood had the same patina found in the locker rooms of the Meadow Club or Shinnecock in Southampton, where Warren had played in tennis tournaments and caddied for his dad playing golf with clients, and the awnings over the terraces were as crisp as the ones at the Millbrook Golf and Tennis Club.

Chas and Warren were met by a sandy-haired, middle-aged man in whites, whose attitude of deference and familiarity quickly identified him as a member of the staff. “Hey, Chas, good to see you! Long time. I’ve got you two gentlemen set up with Ray and Austin Karr. Should be a good match if your friend here can play the game.”

“That’s great, Bill. This is Warren Hament.” Chas patted the man on the shoulder as he extended his hand to Warren.

“Bill Asher. I’m the excuse for a tennis pro around here. Good to meet you.”

Warren returned the firm grip. “I might be looking for some tips later. It’s been a while.”

“Well, once the Karrs get done with most people, they need a stiff drink more than any tennis tips. You’re all on court four.” Bill winked at Warren and waved over his shoulder as he headed into the pro shop. At the door, he paused and threw Chas a can of balls. “Go get ’em, Harper.”

“For some reason, Chas, I get the feeling that people around here take their tennis pretty seriously.” Warren was beginning to be glad he’d practiced.

“Well, if these two beat us, you’ll get to hear all about it at dinner tonight—all night. My mom’s invited them.” Chas led the way to the court. From the lawn, Warren could see the Karrs warming up. They were obviously father and son, one in his late fifties, the other in his late twenties. The two looked like an advertisement for something, only better. Ray Karr was about six feet one inch tall, and fit, his legs solid slabs of muscle, his gold-and-gray hair setting off a deep tan on a handsome, weather-beaten face. His son was about the same size, with short blond hair and a long, fine nose, atop which perched a pair of sunglasses virtually identical to the ones his father and Chas wore.

“God, playing with you three’s going to be like getting stopped by a team of Nevada state troopers. You guys all get your glasses at the same place?” Warren poked Chas in the ribs with the butt of his racquet. They stood still for a moment, and Warren sized up the opposition. The older man had graceful movement and powerful strokes, but was an overhitter with limited control. The son had obviously taken plenty of lessons with Bill, his strokes long and fluid, but his rhythm had a tentativeness that suggested he would tense up in a match. Warren noted Ray’s backhand looked suspect, and that even in practice his son took relish in driving the ball to that corner and pouncing on the weak response.

“Okay, Harper, I’ll take the backhand and serve last, I come to net on everything, we hit pace to the old man’s backhand, short to his forehand, and spin to the kid. By the second set Ray’ll be telling him he was illegitimate, and by the end, the kid’s going to think he’s right.”

Chas turned his mirrored gaze to Warren and said, “I just knew I was going to enjoy this.”

three

The walk from the guest room he’d been assigned was pleasant, his shoes making a sandy, scratching sound on the stone path. The evening was warm, with a slight breeze off the ocean. His skin was flushed from the sun, and the exercise made him feel fit. Just one day of the good life, he thought, and I already feel like a million bucks. Then he corrected himself—better make that a couple of
hundred
million bucks. The Harpers weren’t just a successful family. They were a dynasty. This was a nice place to visit, but whatever it took to make this kind of money, Warren was pretty sure he didn’t, or maybe didn’t even
want
to, have it.

The minute he walked into the living room, Warren was relieved at his choice of clothes. He’d considered white pants with a white shirt and blazer, but that made shoes difficult, and he didn’t want to look ready for sailing. After a few moments of deliberation, he went with old Brooks Brothers khakis, a blue oxford with rolled-up sleeves, and a pair of slightly worn Tretorn tennis shoes. He carried the blazer in case.

His outfit closely matched everyone else’s, except for that of several older men, who were wearing pants and jackets in indescribably iridescent colors. He remembered a line a caddy had once told him: “Golf is just white folks’ excuse to dress like fools.” For a certain set of people, no excuse was necessary.