by Offit, Mike
“Hey, Tarzan. Get check. Pay check. Then go. Oomgawa,” she mimicked him, and made an ape face. The waiter appeared, magically, with the check. Warren signed it and rose shakily to his feet. She followed him, and they made their way unsteadily down the narrow pathways and hidden courtyards to his room. He fished the key out of his jacket and opened the door for her.
“Hey, this is nice.” She stepped into the foyer and past the dressing room, into the peach-stuccoed bedroom, and opened up the sheer curtains that shaded the French doors to the terrace. “Very nice. You must know somebody. Or they must know you. Is that what I think it is?” She nodded her head to the fountainlike Jacuzzi and opened the doors.
“Yeah. It’s actually kind of nice. Wait, I’ll get my suit.” He started to rummage through his suitcase.
“To hell with the pool. This’ll do just fine.” She pulled her shirt over her head and unfastened her jeans as she stepped out onto the patio.
“You are wearing black underwear, aren’t you.” Warren couldn’t help but notice she was in great shape, her stomach defined, small veins visible on her biceps and even at her pelvic bone.
“Yup. What color’re yours?”
“Sky-blue boxers.” He pulled off his shirt and stepped out onto the patio.
“You ever drive one of these things before?” She crossed back to the doors and unbuckled his belt for him.
“I’ve got a license and everything.” He ran his hands down her shoulders. She got his pants open and pushed them down. She brushed his lips with hers.
“Then let’s take it for a spin.” She leaned into his arms, and as they kissed, he slipped the clasp and slid the straps of her bra down. She let it fall, and he kicked away his pants with his shoes. Her skin was a dark bronze against his paleness, and he broke the kiss to run his lips over her throat and down her chest, covering her breasts with small kisses. She held his head with her hands, pulling him back up for another kiss. His hands were running up and down her back, and over her bottom.
“Hey. How about that hot tub?” She turned in his arms and, with her back to him, slid her panties off. He reached around and cupped her breasts in his hands, and she stroked his thighs with her palms. She could feel him rising against her, and she reached back to the waistband of his shorts and tugged them down. They caught for a moment, then dropped. He moaned as the sensitive skin pressed against the smooth, cool skin of her rump, the downy hairs at the small of her back tickling him. He bent his head around as she leaned back, and they kissed again. He leaned into her, his hands moving down her flat stomach to probe her.
Warren turned her toward him, then lifted her in his arms and sat her on the edge of the tub. He knelt in front of her, with his head between her thighs, and gently caressed her with his lips and tongue. She held on to his shoulders, guiding him. He could feel her excitement peaking and intensified his effort slightly, as she rocked with a series of crests, making a small, squeaky grunting sound deep in her throat as she came. Her pace slowed, and he rose to his feet, placing himself in position as she slid forward slightly to accommodate him. Their eyes met for a moment, and as an answer to the question in his eyes, she reached down and guided him into her. His breath short and strained, his body taut, he moved until he felt himself ready to explode.
She sensed him building, swelling inside her, and slid her feet down off his back to the ground, giving her more leverage. She ground her hips with him, slamming against him, the force of his climax buckling his knees. He half collapsed over her, his body quavering with short spasms as he recovered. They rested in that position for a few moments.
“Jesus. Wow.” Warren was still shaking and half rolled off her.
“I’ll be right back. Meet me in the tub.” Sam got to her feet and slipped into the room.
Warren climbed wearily into the tub after turning on the timer, discreetly camouflaged with painted Mexican tiles. In a minute, she reappeared, holding two small bottles of juice.
“I love minibars. But I’m drunk enough! I propose a toast.” She handed him a bottle as she climbed in beside him. “To Bentleys and Bel Air!” She clinked his glass and drank hers off.
“I’ll drink to that.” Warren sipped his apple juice contemplatively. They were quiet for a minute. “This is pretty great.”
“Mmmmmmmm.” The two of them leaned back, and the bubbling, warm water lulled them both, until the hum of the motor and the gurgling of the fountain filled the air.
It seemed as if an hour passed as they sipped their juice and half dozed in the water. Warren noticed how he didn’t have the tense, uneasy feeling he usually had after the few times he had ever had sex with a girl he hardly knew. She seemed familiar to him, and he was completely relaxed around her.
“You know”—her voice half startled him—“I don’t feel like getting dressed and getting the hell out of here. Not one little bit.” She looked him in the eyes and smiled.
“1 was just thinking the exact same thing. I was also going to say that I don’t usually do things…”
“Me either. Except I don’t ever do things like this.” She smiled again. “I guess you’re just lucky.”
“Or irresistible. Like you. Actually, it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything.” He splashed water lightly in her direction.
“Charmer. Well, I’m still on the pill, but I can hardly even remember why. C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’m just about poached.” She stepped out of the tub and scurried for a towel, throwing him one as he climbed out. “I’ll bet, if we tried real hard, we could get something pretty good to eat from room service.”
“You know, you just may be right.” He swung the patio door shut as they went inside, the pink afternoon light fading on the cypress trees.
twenty-nine
The next morning, Warren was surprised how well rested he felt when the phone woke him. Sam had stayed the night, and the room-service dinner had been just about perfect. They’d made love again, more slowly, and drifted off to sleep early. He had an hour to get ready, and when he realized they still had the car, he called Anson’s hotel and left a message that he’d meet him at Warner’s offices. Sam happily agreed to drop him off and take the car back to the office after she stopped at home. They shared a light breakfast on the patio in the morning sun, talking about his plans for the day, and she looked beautiful in the big terry robe, her hair a wild tangle.
“I know what’s going to happen now.” She had the sports pages of the Los Angeles Times open on her lap.
“What’s that?” Warren had showered, shaved, and dressed, ready to go.
“I’ll drop you off this morning, you’ll call me from the airport, and I’ll probably never see you again.” She got a pouty look on her face, pushing out her lips.
“I sincerely doubt that. Want to meet me in Pebble Beach when my outing’s over on Saturday? You play golf’?” He wasn’t sure he meant it at first, but as the words left his lips, he discovered he really did want to see her again, preferably immediately.
“The answer is yes and no. Hate the game. But I like those little carts. And you know what kind of a driver I am.” She gave him a sunny smile.
“Well, since you’re my new chauffeur, you’d better get hopping. I’ve got to go meet with the jerk-bond kings of LA, not to mention one of the most miserable human beings of all time, and it’s getting late.” He hooked his thumb in the air and bent over to kiss her.
“Oh, yessir! I’ll git de ve-hi-cle right away, boss!” Her tone was mocking.
“Hey, lose the attitude. I don’t pay you enough for that kind of sass.” He spanked her on the behind with the Times, and she giggled happily on her way to get dressed.
Warren hopped out of the Bentley a block down Wilshire Boulevard from Warner Savings and Loan’s Executive Office Building. The five-story, steel-and-glass monstrosity featured a billboard on its roof emblazoned with the bank’s ludicrous coat of arms. The warm day was clear and bright, but, Warren noticed, he was the only person on
the sidewalk though he was surrounded by office buildings and apartment houses. It was LA exactly the way comedians described it.
He turned into Warner’s reception lobby, and cool air rushed past him as he opened the door. The receptionist sat behind a beautiful semicircular podium desk, made from tiger maple edged with brass. The floor was a carefully laid pattern of large ivory-marble blocks, and the walls were padded and upholstered in a rich art deco cream velvet. Warren couldn’t imagine how much the tasteful and serene space might have cost.
“Hi. I’m Warren Hament from Weldon Brothers. I’m here to see Karlheinz and Pete. Also, there’s another person from my office…” Warren was speaking to the receptionist, a pleasant-looking woman in her midforties.
“Yes. That’s Mr. Combes. I’ve sent him up to the conference room already. Just take this elevator to the fifth floor. It’s on your left, second door. Julie’s Karlheinz’s secretary, and she’ll look to anything you need. Here’s your pass.” She gave Warren a nice grin, and he took the adhesive pass, thanked her, and stuck it on his lapel. He peeled it off as soon as the elevator door closed.
On five, he stepped off the elevator, which was an express, and turned to his left. He almost ran down Julie Gordon, Beker’s assistant.
“Hey, Warren, take it easy. Nobody’s in there yet except your guy.” She was a trim, petite woman in her late twenties, smart and dedicated. He found it amusing that the receptionist had referred to her as a secretary. She had so much more on the ball than Pete Largeman that his time would have been spent more productively getting her coffee. Warren had met her when they came to New York. Warren discovered that he needed Julie’s help to get ideas presented intelligently to Beker when he was too busy or distracted to take Warren’s calls. Explaining things to Largeman was a waste of energy. He generally only wanted to talk about Dodgers tickets, or to plot out how he could arrange a business trip to his hometown, Chicago, which could tie in nicely with a Bulls, Blackhawks, Cubs, White Sox, or Bears game and dinner at Morton’s. Recently, he’d taken up golf, and salesmen from all the Wall Street firms were lining up for the pleasure of escorting Pete, in his billowing neon double knits, onto some of the finest courses in California. The joke around the Street was that Largeman had played at Los Angeles Country Club more times that year than its head pro. Largeman still sported a 36 handicap despite the practice, and he was a consistent cheater. Caddies avoided him like the plague since he never tipped them more than the minimum.
“Jesus, Julie, sorry. I’m a little distracted this morning. You met Anson?” Warren touched her shoulder affectionately. She worked for a couple of lowlifes, but she always maintained her sense of humor, and he genuinely liked her.
“Yeah. Real charmer. Asked me for coffee, with Coffee-mate. Then gives me some stuff to copy. I was going to ask him if he wanted a blow job too, but I was afraid of the answer.” Her sarcastic tone indicated she didn’t really mind taking care of this stuff. It was normal business-meeting crap, and she knew she was stuck doing it because she was junior, not because she was female.
“Glad to see he’s making an impression right off the bat. Where’s Pete? Maybe he could jog over to Dunkin’ Donuts for us all.”
“Oooh. That’s a good one.” She laughed out loud. “The Michelin Man is in the head. Karl’s on his way. Let me get this stuff copied. Oh, yeah, I got this message for you.” She handed him a slip of notepaper. “Could you grab the coffee? It’s over in that kitchenette. No Coffee-mate, though.” She pointed to an open door down the hall.
“Yup. I remember. See ya in a sec.” Warren stepped into the kitchenette, which had a full range of appliances, a pantry stocked with food, and a refrigerator filled with fruit, cheese, vegetables, and all sorts of interesting-looking snacks. A smaller, separate fridge held lunches people brown-bagged. It was all well planned and expensively done. The countertop was light gray granite. He started to reach for the tray and realized he still had the phone message in his hand. Kerry had called from New York and left him a message to call Mr. Wittlin. It took him a second to realize she meant Detective Wittlin, but probably chose to make the message a bit less conspicuous to a client. He stuck the paper in his jacket pocket, then grabbed the tray, which had been sent up from the company dining room, and balanced it with his briefcase as he crossed back to the conference room. He pushed open the door. Anson Combes was on the phone at the far end of the room, across an ocean of more tiger maple—a custom-made conference table with small teleconferencing devices in front of each seat.
Combes looked up and covered the mouthpiece. “Hey, Hament, you the coffee boy now too? Big step up, eh?” Combes laughed his hissing, nervous cackle and quickly scratched his left ear.
“Hi, Anson. Yeah, actually Malcolm had asked me to meet you at the hotel and carry your bags out for you, but I overslept. Sorry, no Coffee-mate. Will that be one lump or two?” Warren put the tray down and poured himself a cup from the thermos of coffee. Anson had turned his attention back to the telephone. Warren shrugged and poured Anson a cup too, then handed it to him. He was busy berating Brad Brooks, an associate, about some data-processing snafu. His tone was condescending, sour, and demeaning all at once.
“Yes, but, Brad, that’s no excuse. We’ve got to have those numbers today, and they’ve got to be right. If they sent the tape in the wrong format, that’s our fault for not telling them which one we run. This is inexcusable. You fucked it up, you fix it. I don’t give a damn who else has to wait, I want those numbers now.… Yeah? Well, Holik’s a fucking moron, okay? He bids what I tell him to bid anyway. He’s a fucking loser. I know you agree. You wanna listen to that clown? I’m telling you, get those numbers to Diane now. Don’t talk to Holik. I’ll deal with him later.”
Warren stood there impassively, knowing that, at a key moment in the future, Combes would use this conversation to put Brooks in a compromising position. Combes would say that Brooks had told him he thought Jamie Holik was a moron and a bozo, simply because Combes had said it and Brooks was too intimidated to demur. Whenever Combes started it with him, Warren would immediately change the subject, never agreeing with Combes implicitly or explicitly.
Combes had hung up on Brooks and swiveled his chair back to the conference table. Suddenly, as if some sort of drug had hit his system, Anson became friendly, charming, flattering, and funny. He complimented Warren on arranging the meeting, how well he had developed the client relationship and the business, and how much he appreciated the way Warren had included him. He said he was looking forward to the golf trip and hoped they could sit down and discuss some of Anson’s ideas for the improvement of the mortgage department and explore some of Warren’s own ideas. As Warren was figuring out how to respond, Karlheinz and Pete came in the room, followed by Julie with a stack of papers, which she distributed. Introductions were made, and Anson launched his pitch.
The papers were charts of Weldon’s prowess and standing in all the various capital markets functions. These included its rankings as a seller of all the various categories of stock and bond offerings, and its “firsts” in financing structures. Anson whipped through them all quickly, summing them up by pointing out that Weldon was a top-five firm in virtually every area that could conceivably be of use to Warner. He heaped compliments on the bank’s strategy and execution in the markets and expressed appreciation for the opportunity to meet with them. Finally he turned to Karlheinz Beker.
“Basically, Mr. Beker, Weldon—we—want to get deeper into bed with you. What do we have to do to get more of your mortgage business? If it means stepping up our junk business too, we can deliver. I’ve gotten the Investment Banking Committee to agree to sell your CDs, under certain conditions. We’re pulling out all the stops.”
Warren’s jaw dropped. Not only had he not been informed that the IBC had changed their mind about selling Warner’s paper, he was dead against it. He saw Warner for what it was—a bloated, overleveraged house of cards that relied on the federal government’s guarantee of it
s deposits to borrow the money it lent to Mike Milken. If its returns on those loans—the junk bonds, partnerships, and other investments such as commercial real estate mortgages—should fall below the cost of its borrowings, the bank had enough capital to last maybe a couple months. Considering nobody could tell from their statements what half their investments were, Warren had agreed that selling Warner’s certificates of deposit to Weldon’s valued customer base was hardly a confidence builder for the firm or its reputation.
Karlheinz Beker slowly put his pen down on the conference table. “I appreciate the lengths you seem willing to go to for some of our business, Mr. Combes”—Beker’s accent was not heavy, just a trace of Austrian intonation—“but, as I told you in our telephone conversation, right now we are very pleased with the service we are getting from Drexel on nonmortgage products. Perhaps at some point in the future, if our needs change, we can review the situation. It is not as if our firms aren’t doing a fair amount of business together as it is. Warren has been doing a very good job of keeping us up with developments in the markets, and I must say that your mortgage trading desk seems first-rate, and very willing to work with us. Warren executed a rather large IO strip trade for us just recently.” Beker reached into the case he had carried into the meeting and pulled out a stack of Weldon Brothers spiral binders. “I took the time to review these, and I wanted to return them to you. They were very helpful.”
It was all Warren could do to sit still. From Beker’s response he learned that Combes had called Beker at least once without even telling Warren, a serious breach of etiquette. He also recognized the binders. They were highly confidential preliminary reports on a bank balance-sheet management system that the sales group was developing in concert with Weldon’s Asset Finance team. Basically, they were developing a computer-modeling program that could manipulate and reallocate an institution’s balance sheet to take the greatest advantage of existing and future regulations. The plan was to put the finishing touches on the program, then parcel it out, on a fee basis, to the firm’s best clients. They called it BIGS, but Warren couldn’t remember what the acronym stood for. Combes had sent the guts of the project to one of the least trustworthy, sleaziest, and greediest people Warren had ever met. He could guarantee that Beker had sent copies directly to Drexel’s Finance department, and they were busy replicating the system as they spoke. Warren took it personally, as he had spent many late evenings with Weldon’s Asset Finance people building the model.