Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

“What’s that?” She sounded a little wary.

“I miss you. Let someone else handle the office and fly here for a few days. We’ll shop, talk, eat, and have fun. It’s snowing a little today. You could stay until New Year’s weekend. What do you say?” He really did want to see her.

“I don’t know. It’s been a while. Maybe you won’t like me anymore, and then you’ll be stuck with me.” Her throaty voice made Warren uncomfortable in his chair.

“Listen, I’ll get you the ticket. First class on American. Open return, whenever you want. I still like you. Lots.” He felt almost silly, but the pleading was real. He desperately wanted to see her.

“Oooh. Big sugar daddy. Will I get to keep the headphones from the flight?” She sounded coy.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. I’ll take the one thirty tomorrow. Don’t sweat the ticket. I still like you too. Just be at that goddamn gate, or I’m going right home. You know, I haven’t been to New York in maybe five years.” Now she sounded happy.

“Pick you up at the airport? Are we that serious?”

“Well, you better be!”

“I’ll be there. This is great!” He signed off with her, not wanting anything to spoil the moment or change her mind. He felt totally exhilarated. He’d have to cancel a dinner with Malcolm, but figured Conover would be pleased to reschedule. There was hope for a happy New Year indeed.

Just as he was beginning to feel a little upbeat, Annlois, looking drawn and upset, came over to his desk. She was a tall, thin woman, surprisingly mature for a secretary. Warren had seen her on occasion wandering on Water Street during her lunch break, seemingly distraught, talking to herself, and looking ill. He had mentioned it once to Combes, who’d shrugged it off and looked at him as if he were nuts. At this moment, she seemed worse than ever.

“Oh, Warren, hi. Sorry to bother you…”

“It’s okay. Really. What can I do for you? Are you okay?” Warren realized she must be thinking about her job—no more Combes, no more Combes’s secretary. “Listen, I’m sure they’ll find a place for you. There’s got to be a new head of finance, right? You’re great.”

“Oh, thank you. No, I… I, um, wondered if you could help me. With some things. Anson’s things. You know, there are some things that should be sorted through.”

Warren was surprised she would ask him to help look through Anson’s papers. That was something he would have expected one of the other finance people to do. “Sure, Annlois, I’d be happy to.”

“Yes, you see… um, I thought that you… because you were… well, Mr. Conover asked me to take care of it, and there are so many things I’m not sure about. It would be a favor, and if you wouldn’t tell anyone… I don’t, I mean I wouldn’t want them to think that I couldn’t…” She seemed a bit nervous.

“I understand. It’s not a problem. Is everything in Anson’s office? I could take care of it this evening if you’d like. Will you stay to help?” Warren was curious to see what kind of stuff Anson kept around. He couldn’t turn down a chance to poke through them with Annlois.

“Oh, of course…. I didn’t mean to do it alone… I mean for you to do it all yourself.” She smiled, and Anson noticed how her lipstick was applied beyond the edges of her lips to make them appear fuller. The only woman he’d ever seen do that before was a friend’s grandmother.

“Okay, then. Maybe around six. I’ll come by when I’m all done.” Warren smiled back at her.

She thanked him again, then moved back across the floor. She moved deliberately, and Warren thought that her shoulders looked slightly more square, her step a bit less leaden.

Managing directors’ offices at Weldon Brothers tended to feel like suites at English hotels. They were filled with mahogany tables, upholstered armchairs and a sofa, and usually had a few current magazines on their coffee tables and prints of sailboats hanging on the walls. The one mark that separated a finance office from a trading office was the proliferation of Lucite tombstones—small copies of the newspaper ads run to announce big new bond deals sealed in plastic as a status symbol. The more tombstones, the more seasoned and the bigger a hitter the finance person must be. Anson’s office had them everywheres, in all shapes and sizes, so many that he’d actually stacked maybe twenty on the floor in a corner. The view out the window was nothing particularly special, just the usual panorama of other office towers with a partial opening to the sky. Higher up in Weldon’s building, the views became breathtaking and vertiginous. The chairman’s office, on a corner, commanded a view from Connecticut to New Jersey, and on clear evenings, the late sun set it ablaze, seemingly turning it into a room of gold.

Warren came in through the open door to Combes’ office. Annlois followed him. They were carrying folded corrugated-cardboard cartons from a large pile by her desk. She closed the door behind them.

“Why don’t you start with the desk, Warren? I’ll go get us some coffee.” She opened up two of the cartons and set them by the left side of Anson’s desk. Out of her dress pocket she fished a small key and handed it to him. “Just use your own judgment.”

As she left, he noticed that she slipped the lock on and closed the door behind her. He stood there a moment, puzzled. Clearly, she wanted him to find something. Was it something that she was afraid of? Something she thought would embarrass Anson or hurt Weldon? Warren couldn’t figure it out. But, whatever it was, it was probably in one of the drawers on the left side of Anson’s desk, the only side that locked.

It took him just a few minutes to go through the large file drawer and two smaller ones. The files looked pretty routine. In the top drawer had been Anson’s portable computer. Warren knew that Anson carried it everywhere with him. He’d spent close to $10,000 for it, all personal money. It was the first one Warren had ever seen that could fit in a reasonable-size shoulder bag. Anson used it constantly, but Warren figured the night of the party he must have decided it was too heavy to lug up to the armory. He took it out of the drawer and set it on the table. Its power cord wasn’t connected, but Warren figured the battery might work. He opened the machine up and pressed the power key.

The machine was slow, but after about fifteen or twenty seconds, a log-on screen came up on the liquid crystal display, asking for a password. Warren turned the machine off. So much for that. He started on the rest of the desk. He hadn’t found anything yet. Maybe Annlois was just a little spotty right now. The right side of the desk held nothing of interest. Most of Anson’s files were in the long credenza. Warren figured that was his next stop.

Annlois opened the door, balancing two cups of coffee while she turned her key in the lock. Warren went to help, taking the cups and setting them on the desk. He pointed to the two boxes he’d filled with the contents of the desk.

“That’s mostly personal stuff. You should send it to his wife, I guess.” Warren shrugged. He peeled the lid off a cup and noticed it was light, the way he liked it, with no sugar. Annlois had been an excellent, old-time secretary.

“Yes. I’m sure… I… yes…” Warren saw her eyes go to the computer, which was open, but dark on the desk. “Well, you know, actually, I can probably handle the rest. I just thought you might be able to… I mean, well, is that your computer? Anson had one just like it.”

“Oh, no—”

She cut Warren off. “Yes. He did. He was always telling me how he wanted to get one for his house, so he wouldn’t have to carry it so much. Did you know his house had a name… Ledges, I think. Yes, that was it. The Ledges. I think it had a lot of stone or something. He loved that name. Anyway, I can handle this….” She swept her hand around in an arc. “You were nice to help. Oh, don’t forget your computer.”