Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (29 page)

Largeman clapped politely and knocked the ball away. “Nice sandie, Bubba. Great shot!” Even Pete Largeman had his moments. Pebble Beach was like that.

That evening, the group had drinks in the bar, and a big meal. Anson Combes had turned out to be a pretty good golfer, and his team was tied with Warren’s for the lead in the little tournament that was set up every year by Larry Downe, a Weldon salesman from Cleveland. Downe was obsessive with numbers and ran a great tournament. There were prizes for just about everyone, from money, which everyone anted into the pot, to golf equipment and sweaters. Warren had started attending the outing the previous year, and even Combes’s presence couldn’t spoil it for him. After each day’s rounds on one of the four courses, they’d meet in one of the hospitality suites, have drinks, smoke cigars, and laugh a lot until it was time go to dinner, which would be followed by more drinks, and an early lights out. The clients all had a ball, and nobody who was a part of the outing had missed one voluntarily for seven years. Virtually no business was discussed, and many real friendships had developed.

Combes was sitting off in a corner with Karlheinz Beker and Dick Leahy from Golden State, deep in conversation. Warren was debating whether to butt in on them and finally opted not to. Whatever Combes was up to, Warren would figure it out eventually. In the meantime, he just wanted to play golf and drink beer until Sam arrived the next day.

“Hey, Warren! Warren! C’mon over here a second.” Anson was waving at him, smiling. “C’mere!” Anson was being jocular, a description Warren had somehow never matched up with Anson’s tightly wound, highly controlled demeanor.

“What’s up? You planning on covering these two guys from now on?” Warren did his best not to sound nervous or uneasy. After, all, the two men with Combes represented about 25 percent of Warren’s business. He just hoped Anson wasn’t annoying them.

“No. In fact, Karl was just telling me how happy they are that you started covering them. Bill, may he rest in peace, really wasn’t on top of things the last few years. Dick pretty much agrees.” It never failed to amaze Warren how immensely he disliked this man. In one sentence, after calling Beker “Karl,” a mistake that generally enraged the man, Combes had gone on to sarcastically insult and demean a dead man, one whose death had evidently opened wide a door for Anson.

“Hey, we aim to please.” Warren bowed his head and accepted the chair that Leahy had pushed back for him. Combes’s mentioning Dougherty set off a cascade of questions in Warren’s mind. Anson had started asking a lot of questions about Bill at the same time that someone was poking around their trades. Warren didn’t even know that Dougherty had ever been assigned to Warner. As far as he had known, the bank was always covered out of the Los Angeles office. Was it just a coincidence, or was something going on? Combes was a scary guy, but Warren didn’t take him for a murderer. What possible reason would Combes have for killing Dougherty, other than maybe adding a little bit to his already huge paychecks?

“Anyway,” Anson said, breaking Warren’s intense reverie, “the three of us were talking, and we were brainstorming about how we can ramp up our business together, to benefit all of us. These two gentlemen have some great ideas. It’s too bad that we didn’t get a chance to sit down a few years ago.” Warren could see that the two men were a bit into their cups, and Anson had clearly been putting on the press, or maybe plotting, with them.

“Yep. I think that you guys at Weldon have really got your act together. This is a great outing, and I think it’s been worthwhile for us to talk.” Dick Leahy gestured toward Anson and droned on for a while, the way senior executives do. He was used to having people listen when he spoke and felt no inhibition about going on. Beker started fidgeting a bit when Leahy spent a couple minutes talking about how Golden State was a leader, like Weldon, but, Beker got his turn and effused about Warner for a while.

The whole scene gave Warren the creeps. Anson Combes had somehow cozied up to Warren’s two main accounts, and they had spent ten minutes stroking him. It was definitely weird. Dougherty’s ghost must have been cringing. Nonetheless, Warren grinned and bore it. They sat and chatted about business for a while, then the talk shifted to golf. Warren complimented Anson on a great third shot into the eighteenth hole, and Leahy congratulated Beker on breaking 100 for the first time.

“Well, golf is a real test of character,” said Karlheinz. “It’s a window into the soul.” In that case, Warren thought, you must be a first-rate cheater.

“I don’t know,” Warren said. “I’ve always thought that the only thing that how someone plays golf really divulges about about him is how good a golfer he is.” One of the most honest men he’d ever met, a real estate developer who had an impeccable business reputation and had honored a handshake deal with Weldon’s mortgage department that cost him over $8 million, was the biggest golf cheater Warren had ever played with, and when they had played a set of tennis at a resort he owned, he had called every close ball Warren hit out.

The conversation kept up for about fifteen minutes longer, and Warren wandered off to find some snacks. He excused himself to reach for some nuts at the bar, and the older man sharing a drink with a friend turned to him.

“Y’all seem to be havin’ a damn good time.” His drawl reminded Warren of Lyndon Johnson.

“Well, golf and alcohol are a pretty good combo. And besides”—Warren, using one of LBJ’s pet phrases, nodded at Combes—“I’ve got that guy’s pecker in my pocket.”

The man laughed loudly. “Hey, that’s a good one, son!’ He smacked Warren on the back. “How I do miss ol’ Lyndon. Jim Carruthers. Nice to meet ya.”

“Warren Hament. Hey, aren’t you with Temenosa?” Warren recognized the name from Larisa’s constant updates about her work.

“Another good one, Mista Hament. How’d you know that?”

“My, umm—my ex-girlfriend is Larisa Mueller from Weldon. I work there too.”

“Damn! That girl was
your
gal pal? You are one lucky man! You two split?” Carruthers had drooled a little of his bourbon in surprise.

“Afraid so.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, son. She’s a fine-looking woman, and pretty much never stopped talkin’ about you. You’re the bond guru, right?”

“Guru? Well, not exactly.” Warren chuckled slightly. “She talked about me? Hah! Well, actually, she always talked a lot about you!”

“Yeah, well, she always was tryin’ to keep the wolves at bay. We were howlin’ up the wrong tree there, that’s for sure. Not a man in my office din’t try. Rumah was maybe one succeeded, but I nevah knew who! Nope, she always tol’ me you were the man if we ever needed someone to cover our pension plan. But, that’ll be in the hands of the bankruptcy courts, I s’pose.” Carruthers shrugged. Warren remembered Carruthers had pocketed nine figures a few years before in a management buyout paid for with junk bonds. Too bad for everyone else who’d gotten hammered while he drove the company into the ground.

“Well, thanks for the consideration. I better stop eating these nuts, looks like my guys are heading to dinner. It was nice to meet you and put a face to the name.”

“Pleasure was all mine, son. Hey, put a good word in for me with your ex, wouldya? Ha! Jes’ kiddin!… Well, maybe not. Lissen, if you wanna play the Point before you head home, gimme a call. You take care!”

They shook hands and Warren promised to take him up on the rare invitation to play at Cypress Point, taking his card, then turning back to rejoin the group.

The bill was settled, and they wandered downstairs to two vans they had rented and drove off to dinner in Carmel. Warren got wrapped up in the good spirit of the twenty-eight men, drinking and joking, and generally acting foolish.

After dinner, a raucous affair with a full case of wine polished off along with many cocktails, a drawing was held to see who would drive back to the hotel. Obviously, no one in the group was sober enough to get behind the wheel. They agreed to pay two of the caddies who were eating with them to ferry them home, then send them back in a taxi. It took about twenty minutes to get the unruly group into the vans, and the temporary chauffeurs filed out of the lot and back toward the entrance to the 17-Mile Drive.

“Hey, Hament, what’d we agree to pay these guys for the lift?” Larry Downe, the Cleveland saleman, asked in his capacity as official accountant for the trip. His words were slurred from the drink.

“Don’t worry about it, Larry, I won’t expense it.” Warren had already slipped each man a $100 bill.

“Aw, Christ, Larry, who cares?” Tom Shugrue, a rangy Southerner and the best golfer in the group, drawled. “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” Most of the repeat attendees liked to tease Downe about his thrifty and compulsive attention to every penny. That he cheated a little on the golf course and mistreated the caddies hadn’t done much to endear him, but he did do a great job organizing everything from the rooms to the dinner reservations.

“Hey, guys, I always gotta tell you twenty times, don’t overpay the help!” Downe was peeved, and he smacked his fist into his palm on each syllable.

“Umm, Larry, I believe you’ve got your caddies confused with your hookers,” Shugrue drawled, and the whole van burst into laughter. Downe’s bald pate flushed bright red. Two years before, Downe had tried to hire a hooker at a local bar, only to be turned down entirely when he tried to haggle on price. The caddie who had been sitting next to him had reported the story to Shugrue the next day on the first tee, sotto voce, and Downe had never been allowed to live it down. He accepted the abuse as his dues for being one of the guys. He was a bit of a stiff, and only covered small accounts, but Larry was a good guy—his thrifty ways an unbreakable habit.

The vans pulled up in front of the Lodge, and everyone piled out. A few straggled in toward the bar, and others headed to the practice green for a late-night putting contest that might see a few thousand dollars change hands. Warren waved them off and headed toward his room, down the driveway toward the golf course and the ocean. He had booked a higher-priced oceanfront room, scrupulously advising Downe that he would pay the price difference himself.

It was eleven twenty when he got in, and the room had been prepared for the night by the housekeeping staff. The Lodge at Pebble Beach consisted of a row of low, white stucco buildings. The best rooms lined the famous eighteenth fairway, with large sliding-glass doors that afforded sweeping views over the grass to the Pacific breakers crashing on the rocks just offshore. The rooms were elegant and cozy, the décor warm California rustic, with neutral tones set off by rich patterned-fabric accents on the pillows and chairs. The huge bed was turned down, a fire was ready to go in the grate, the lights had been left dimmed, and the sound of the surf was drifting in on a light breeze. Warren shucked off his sweater and shirt and found a robe hanging on the door of the bathroom. He changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, put on the robe, then brushed his teeth and washed up. He walked to the windows and cranked one open, letting the brisk salt air and the rhythm of the waves float through the room. He paused for a moment, then lit the fire, closing the screen. It sprang to life, aided by the gas jet, and he sat down on the bed, setting the alarm clock, then slipping under the covers, taking a moment to savor the light smoky scent of the wood now burning evenly. He took his pocket calendar off the nightstand, then picked up the phone. It took him a moment to find Sam’s number, then he dialed. It rang about twelve times, with no answer, or answering machine. He figured either she was out or had turned off the phone, and neither possibility did much to raise his spirits.

“Oh, well,” he said, half out loud, and reached for the light. A sudden movement at the closet door startled him. He sat bolt upright.

“I hope that call was to me.” It was Sam, coming out of the closet, wearing a tiny nightgown. “I’ve been hiding in that damn closet for an hour. I hope you don’t mind, but I ate the macadamia nuts from the minibar.”

“Jesus. You scared me half to death.” Warren’s heart was pounding a bit, but he had a huge smile on his face. “How’d you get in?”

“Do you think there’s a bellman in California who could say no to me?”

“Maybe not. Think there are any bond salesmen who could?”

She was climbing in the bed. “I can be very persuasive when I want to be. Nice shorts.” She snapped the waistband of his yellow boxers.

“I wasn’t expecting company. I would have—”

“Baked a cake?” She reached up and turned off the light. “Hmmm, what have we here?”

thirty-three

The light on Warren’s answering machine was flashing like crazy when he got home. It had been a long flight back on the red-eye, and traffic on the Van Wyck Expressway had made the cab ride from Kennedy into an ordeal. He dumped his bags and headed for the shower before bothering to listen. He plopped down on the bed, still wet, and stretched his back. He couldn’t ignore the light and reached over to punch the button.

There was a call from his father, two from the office, one from the cleaner’s looking for a mis-delivered suit, and one from Detective Wittlin.

“Mr. Hament, this is Detective Wittlin. Please give me a call as soon as you get back from California. It’s important.”

Warren was tired and wanted to get a few extra hours of sleep before he went in to the office, so he shelved the message. He had just dozed off when the phone woke him.

It was Wittlin. “Did you get my message?”

Warren said that he had, but the overnight flight had left him punchy.

“I told you the other day that I’d call you when I got back to town.”

“Listen, Mr. Hament, I’ve got to be honest with you. We’re not getting anywhere with the homeless-killer angle on this. My captain likes someone who knew him, disliked him, and maybe had something to gain. Maybe someone at work. Maybe his wife or a relative. Personally, I think he’s read too many mysteries, but, he’s a captain, and I’m not.”

“So? What’s it got to do with me? And I thought people saw a homeless guy there.”