Mike Offit: Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street

“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.