Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (32 page)

“How he get the exclusives? Why would anybody even give him an exclusive to broker a big trade? What’s he bring to the table?” Fowler, to Warren’s amusement, seemed genuinely perplexed.

“Look, Pete, with all the business we did the last couple years, Scholdice had to pocket twenty million easy. That pays for a lot of schmoozing. I guess Anson figured there was no upside to finding out how he got the deals. I think Scholdice might be German for goose, or golden egg, or something like that.” The conversation had played out perfectly so far. Warren was getting to demonstrate how much he knew, while at the same time casting doubt on Anson’s ethics and Goering’s ability to cover the account. Warren knew this would appeal to all the managers in the room. They loved naked ambition.

After a second or two, Fowler stood up, and started pacing as he spoke. “Okay. You’re now the senior coverage on Warner and Golden State. If you think there’s more there, go after it. Keep Scholdice on our side. You know the salesman’s motto: ‘Dress British, think Yiddish.’”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll get the ball rolling.” Warren had to admit, as Goering would say, sometimes this shit was fucking great.

thirty-seven

“Listen to me, will you listen to me? You’re not listening to me.” Frank Tonelli had his hands out in front of him, palms to the sky. He’d put his Diet Coke down on the desk, next to the chocolate napoleon he’d been eating before Dutch Goering had interrupted him.

“I’m listening to you, Frank.” Goering stared at him impassively.

“You’re not listening. I’m not saying—”

“This is a hell of a conversation you guys are having. He’s not listening, and you’re not saying. Wow! This is just like meetings at the UN or the Paris peace talks!” Warren interrupted the two. He always enjoyed watching and listening to Dutch Goering’s conversations. Dutch’s first name was actually Anselm, but he’d gotten the nickname from Sandy Stein years before in honor of a particularly blunt haircut. Goering was, beyond doubt, the best-looking, best-dressed salesman at Weldon, if not on the Street. Warren had a tremendous respect for his accomplishments because while he seemed at first not to be the smartest guy, underneath he really missed very little. The trainees had nicknameded him “General Fucketyfuck,” in honor of his penchant for cursing, although at least two of the women in the class had slept with him, and any of them would have loved to be placed as his backup. Goering knew how to get business done and led something of a charmed life, with a beautiful wife and two perfect kids.

At that moment, Goering’s chiseled features were puckered in anger, and he repeatedly shot his cuffs, pulled at his tie knot, and adjusted his cuff links as he argued with Tonelli and Hament. “Listen, Warren, if you want to say something, why don’t you just say it.” Goering’s ice-blue eyes glared at Warren through slitted lids.

“Look, Dutch, Pete Fowler reassigned Golden State to me this morning. He did so in front of Carl Dressler, and then specifically instructed Malcolm to make the change. Or at least he sent a memo to Malcolm, because Deputy Dog hasn’t blessed us with his presence today. I know you’ve been covering part of Golden State for a long time, but that’s not the point.” Warren was sitting back in an armchair, considering how to handle this. When money was involved, Goering always seemed to have a knack for getting his share. Warren didn’t want him gumming up the works. “I’ve done okay with them on the money markets side, and I’ve gotten to know Leahy pretty well. I think it’ll work out.”

“Listen, Leahy is a good friend of mine. I guarantee you he’s not going to want the coverage change. You guys are going to fuck up a good relationship here.” Goering ran his hand through his thick blond hair and checked his watch.

“Listen, Dutch,” Tonelli interrupted, “if the relationship’s so good, how come we only did two-fifty gross on the long-term side with them last year? It’s easily a two-million-dollar account. Easy.” Tonelli could be fun when he was on your side, but Warren was afraid that this confrontation could get out of hand.

“Everyone knows the thrift business is dying. They’re on the ropes. This is horseshit.” Goering was beginning to get up a head of steam.

“Look, Dutch, I shouldn’t have been in here to begin with. You’re a good guy, and I don’t want to get in a pissing contest with you. Combes was eating your lunch with this account, and butt-fucking you with management right from the start. I was there once when he called you a brain-dead pretty boy, and I mentioned the fact that you’d grossed fifteen million last year, which is pretty good for someone without a cranium. So, I’m not looking to screw you. Fact is, I’d be happy to split the commission with you because I’m sure we’ll capitalize on your groundwork. In fact, I’d want you in with me when we’re getting near closing. You’re the best closer in the firm, and we should take advantage of that.” It was a struggle to be so pleasant to Goering, but better to placate him than rile him up. He knew that Goering would lose interest pretty soon anyway, and wasn’t worried about it. Besides, no one had promised Warren full commission on the account yet anyway.

“That’s a great approach, don’t you think, Dutch? Great idea, Warren. Super.” Tonelli’s relief was palpable—Warren had offered him an easy exit. “Yeah. Hey, why don’t you two guys strategize in here for a while. I’m going to get some of that Chinese food, okay? I’ll check back later.” Tonelli moved his bulk to the door of the office and headed over to the ledge by the windows, where an assortment of fifteen or twenty foil trays of Chinese food had been spread out, a Thursday tradition of the sales force.

“Man, when he hits that line, bodies are going to start flying.” Warren knew that Goering hated Tonelli. In fact, as far as Warren could tell, Goering hated just about everyone. “That fat fucking dago bastard. I’m sick of his fucking shit. I’m telling you, one day I’m going to get him back for this. Look at that fucking fat ass. Doesn’t give a fuck about himself. Man, I’ll bet he dies of a fucking heart attack by forty-fucking-five. Fuck him. I fucking hope he gets cancer and suffers a lot before he fucking expires.”

The soliloquy reminded Warren of an incident when a junior trader had counted 143
fuck
s in a single Goering joke about a pig farmer. Two hundred bucks had been bet on the over/under at 50 uses of some form of the word, with a 3:1 payout at 150. It was neck and neck.

“Hey, listen, it’s just politics. It makes Tonelli and Dressler look better if they can tell Malcolm what to do. You know I’m not out to screw you. It works out better for both of us this way.” Warren sat there while Goering digested that, and for a moment Warren felt a pang of guilt. When had he become such a Machiavellian manipulator? It felt as if it had happened overnight.

“And where the fuck is that fucking douche bag Holik? Why does he always keep his skinny fucking ass out of this shit? It’s like a fucking freak show in here. The fucking Polack beanpole and the fucking guido whale. That Polack cocksucker. His time will come.” Goering was looking at himself in the reflection off the dark wall of glass. He adjusted his tie and shot his shirt cuffs one more time. “Fucking fucker.”

Warren stifled a giggle.

thirty-eight

“Maybe it’s hunting season on Weldon Brothers bankers this year.” Detective McDermott was sitting down this time, and Wittlin was doing the talking. “What’s going on around here?”

“Detective, if it’s open season on us, I suggest you sell licenses over at Salomon and Morgan Stanley. They’ll be strong buyers.” Warren hadn’t been surprised when the two men had shown up, commandeered a conference room, and started interviewing almost everyone on the floor.

“Nah. The Mayor would be pretty mad if we started letting our best taxpayers blow each other away. Unless, of course, you’re Republicans. Hmm.” Wittlin smiled at the thought.

“Well, anyway, what can I do for you?” Warren was anxious to get this over with. The more time you spent with cops, the less comfortable it seemed you got.

“Okay. First the routine stuff. You knew Anson Combes, right?’

“Absolutely. We worked together.”

“You like him?”

“Nope. Can’t think of anyone who does, offhand. Did, I mean.”

“You know he got killed while popping a girl you used to date, right?”

“That’s very tactful, Lieutenant. We hardly dated. Two or three weeks, years ago.”

“Everyone thinks you were an item once.”

“No, everyone
likes
to think that. Ask Bonnie. It went nowhere. She’s way too smart and beautiful for me.”

“Why not?’

“Why does this matter?” Warren found this unbelievably nosy.

“It might. Look, there were four hundred people who were with you when the guy got his skull crushed. No one thinks you had anything to do with it. Relax. If we can find any little thing, anything at all, to figure out who might have had a reason to kill this guy, that takes us out of a burglary/homicide and into murder by someone with a motive. It narrows the field, and maybe ties back to Dougherty somehow.”

“I see. Sure. Okay. Bonnie and I didn’t work out because she didn’t think I’d be successful enough. At that time, I was talking about doing something a little less lucrative. Once she figured that out, she was gone. Good riddance.” Warren waved his hand. Bonnie had always been one of those pretty women who figured they were destined for something special, one way or the other. When he’d said he had decided he wanted to be a teacher or a tennis pro, she’d bolted. “She liked to play with the big boys.”

McDermott chimed in, “Well, she played with a lot of them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Warren didn’t like McDermott’s tone.

“From what we can tell, she got cozy with about half the managing directors in her department. But what about Combes? What turned him on?” McDermott seemed to enjoy this line of discussion.

“I don’t know, and I know I don’t care.”

“Well, you may not know, but if you did, there’s a chance you’d care.” Wittlin had a thin smile on his face.

“How’s that?”

“I think the man had a taste for your ex-girlfriends.”

Warren sat there speechless. He felt his face flush. “What exactly are you saying?”

“Well, it seems that your other ex at Weldon, Miss Larisa Mueller, had been spending some time with old Anson the past month or so. I don’t think you two overlapped, but I can’t be sure, and the girl’s not saying.” Wittlin actually felt bad for Hament. The Mueller girl was a knockout.

“Look, I stopped seeing Larisa before I went to LA. You spoke to me when I was there. It had to be a couple of months ago. I’ve got a new girlfriend, sort of. I don’t really care who she’s sleeping with. And, don’t call her a
girl
to her face, or you’ll be in trouble.
Woman
. She’s a woman. A free woman.” He couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to start up with Combes. The thought made him sick. It hurt too. It didn’t matter that they’d broken up, or even that she might have been cheating on him. It was that Combes had gotten to her. He was glad the asshole was dead.

“Okay, okay. I just thought I’d tell you.” Wittlin judged that Hament hadn’t known about it. His reaction had been too natural to be faked. Wittlin could read the pained thoughts going through the younger man’s mind on his face right then. Scratch that motive. “Sorry, I guess you didn’t know. Who’s the new girl—or woman—or whatever?”

“None of your business, Detective. If I tell you, you’ll probably wind up informing me that she’s sleeping with Dutch Goering. Look, I saw Anson leave with Bonnie, which seemed to me like a perfect match. I was in the middle of winning a five-hundred-dollar drinking bet, and trying to keep Dutch from raping someone or starting a race riot. I didn’t like Combes even a little a bit, but I’m sorry he’s dead because it might cost me some business. Almost anyone who knew the guy probably wanted to kill him at least once or twice.” Warren leaned back in the chair.

“Okay, okay. Calm down. First Dougherty, now Combes. Do you think it’s a coincidence? A homeless killer and a murderous burglar? It doesn’t sit with me.” Wittlin was over by the window, admiring the view.

“Hey, Detective, this is New York City. Christ, Goering had his throat slashed by a mugger right in front of his door last year, when he was blotto, and almost died. Did you know about that?”

“Yeah. We looked into it.” Goering had been attacked after telling a beggar to “fuck off.” The guy who did it had been arrested after attacking a woman the next day, and had been in prison since.” Okay, we’re done. If you think of anything … you know the drill. Do me a favor, send in Goering next.”

“Oh, Jesus, isn’t he the pretty boy?” McDermott piped in.

“Yeah.” Wittlin grinned again.

“Uh-oh. Better stop taking notes. Our captain is black. If we transcribe this guy, I think he’ll tell us to shoot him on sight. He’s too much.” McDermott was smiling too.

thirty-nine

Jed Leeds’s head looked like some kind of melon ringed with hair. Jed was only twenty-eight, but had gone three-quarters bald already. With his heavy Queens accent, three-piece suits and watch chains, he gave the general impression of being a porn actor dressed like a banker. He always seemed to be smiling. He traded the CMO position for Weldon, which included some of the most volatile and exotic securities in existence. These were mortgage securities that had been restructured to reallocate risk or hide it, in part to meet investors’ needs, and also to get around the rules and make some pieces eligible for sale to people and investment funds that should probably not buy them.

Most of the risk in mortgages was in prepayments. If interest rates went down, people would prepay their mortgages to refinance their loans. The owners of the securities created from those loans would get their money back at the worst possible time—since interest rates were lower, they would have to invest the money at a lower yield. CMOs took big pools of mortgage loans, made a series of bonds out of them, and focused most of the prepayment risk of those big pools into a small number of bonds, or “front” pieces. This insulated the other bonds from all but gargantuan changes in prepayments. By leveraging the risk this way, they created front bonds that were incredibly sensitive to small changes in mortgage prepayment rates. It was Jed’s job to run Weldon’s inventory, and to try to hedge and lay off that risk.