Mike Offit: Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street

“Say, would it be helpful if I joined you in LA? I could clear the deck.” It never failed to amaze Warren how willing people at Weldon were to fly off to sunny Southern California at the drop of a hat right up until June.

“I tell you what. Why don’t you see if you can leave it open for Wednesday, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow from out there and let you know.”

“Okay. I can ask Larisa if she can cover for me if you need me.” Bill knew that Warren and Larisa had been involved with each other, but it had momentarily slipped his mind. “I guess,” he added hesitantly.

“That’s a great idea. I’m sure she’ll be happy to. I appreciate it. I’ll give you a call no later than five tomorrow, and you can grab the Wednesday-morning flight for an afternoon meeting if it looks like a go.” Bill had agreed, and they’d disconnected. Warren had anticipated that Larisa would have to be notified about the trip—the Reorg group was always stretched thin.

Once the plans were made, he called up Frank’s house, to ask Karen if Frank was home. She sounded surprised that he wasn’t in the office. Warren shuffled some papers, then apologized. “I forgot. I thought he was going out to LA this afternoon, and I wanted to fly out with him. He actually canceled the trip, and I plum forgot.”

“You’re going to LA?” She sounded interested. “You and Sam going to ask for her father’s blessing?” Frank had told Karen about the engagement.

“No. Actually she’s staying here.” His voice sounded strained.

“Is everything all right?” Karen’s interest perked up.

“Yeah. She just didn’t feel like going. Why aren’t you working? Playing hooky?”

“No. I’m only working three days a week now. Frank wants me to quit after the wedding. He says he wants to ‘keep’ me.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why you’re not his first wife. You keep the job or you’ll just wind up fighting to keep him. Idle minds are the devil’s something or other. You know.”

“Oh, you don’t see me as the Suzy Homemaker type?” Karen said sarcastically.

“I don’t think that’s in the Mueller genes. You ladies need to apply those minds of yours. Making cookies in a lightbulb oven isn’t a life’s work, you know.” Warren laughed. “Larisa always said you wanted to be the next Albert Schweitzer.”

“Says you. How long you going to be gone? Want me and Frank to entertain your betrothed while you’re away?”

“Till Friday. Sure, if you feel like it…. Oops, I’ve gotta jump, duty calls.” He knew Karen understood how conversations on a trading floor were subject to instant cancellation if a customer called. He figured that Karen would tell Larisa that she’d spoken to Warren, and that he was going to California without Sam.

Before leaving, Warren briefed Kerry about everything he had going on and gave each of his accounts a call to let them know he’d be out for a few days. He wasn’t ready to leave until four thirty, and most of the business for the day was finished anyway. He got his coat and two-suiter from the closet and waved good-bye to Kerry. A car was waiting for him downstairs, and he tossed his bag on the seat.

“Newark, right?” The driver shot a quick look over his shoulder and pulled away from the curb.

Warren grunted and settled back in his seat. “You mind if I change my clothes back here?” The driver shrugged, and Warren quickly pulled a pair of black jeans and a gray, long-sleeve T-shirt out of his bag. He wrestled himself around for a while, waiting to change his pants until they were in the Lincoln Tunnel. By the time they arrived at the airport, he was casually dressed, with a baseball cap and sunglasses, and his suit was carefully stowed in the garment bag. He signed the voucher and hopped out of the car, rushing through the doors like all the other travelers trying to make their flights.

Sam had settled in with a couple of videos and a book on Renaissance art. Warren marveled at the thick, impenetrable volumes she read and teased that they were her equivalents of sleeping pills. He grabbed one from her once and quizzed her, amazed when she remembered almost every date, name, and detail.

“I could fill my mind with useless garbage , like you, or I can fill it with useless knowledge , like this,” she’d said, and gone back to reading.

From the window, in the evening light, the trees were just beginning to break their buds. It had been a warm day, and the chilly winter weekend in East Hampton seemed separated from the coming season by months, not days. She pushed the first cassette into the VCR and settled back in the bed. It was Year of the Dragon, with Mickey Rourke. Warren had recommended it, though he warned her it was pretty violent. She remembered that it had been panned by the critics, who all thought Michael Cimino, the director, was some kind of irredeemable war criminal for making Heaven’s Gate . She had actually liked Heaven’s Gate .

She enjoyed the film, and the gore didn’t bother her much. It was just the movies, and she’d seen how they faked it when she was working. Rourke had been good, and the action taut. She wandered into the kitchen for a beer and turned out the lights.

It was almost eleven o’clock, and Sam changed into a pair of Warren’s flannel pajamas before settling back in bed and reading for an hour. Before turning in, she picked up the phone and called her parents’ house, but the housekeeper told her they were out to dinner, so she brushed her teeth and buried herself under the covers in the dark room, the lights of the skyline throwing a pale shade across the wall, the clock on the MONY Building read 12:05.

The key turning in the lock of the service door barely made any sound at all. Certainly not enough to disturb anyone inside. It was almost three in the morning, and the city was sound asleep. The carpeting in the hall muffled the footsteps as a shadowy figure carefully made its way toward the half-closed bedroom door. In its right hand, a steel blade reflected the weak light that filtered in through the window as the intruder turned and quietly entered the bedroom. At the door, the figure stopped, scanning the room. Out of a pocket came a small plastic bag, which was silently opened and a finely shorn combination of hair and fiber cuttings shaken out on the carpet. This done, the figure slowly stepped toward the bed where Sam lay, her body under the comforter, and her head mostly covered by pillows, a habit to keep out any noise or disruption. The knife hand swung around, poised.

“Why don’t you put that thing down?” Warren’s voice came from behind, and the figure jerked in shock. He was standing in the open closet door, holding his steel tennis racquet in front of him like a shield.

Behind the ski mask, the killer’s eyes flashed around the room.

“I mean it. I’m pretty good with this thing.” He took a few short swings.

“Fuck you, Warren. Fuck you.” It was a woman’s voice and the tension went out of her body as she turned to face him.

“Come on, Larisa, don’t do anything stupid.” He took a half step back as she stood on the floor, the knife still in her hand.

“Don’t do anything stupid? Don’t do anything stupid ? It’s too late for that.” She took a step toward him and spat out, “I am stupid. I did stupid things. For you. I did everything for you. You should be in fucking LA right now. You should let me take care of all this. I always have.”

“You didn’t do anything for me, Larisa. You did it all for yourself. Even Anna’s ski accident.” He held her off by brandishing the racquet again, and she pulled off the mask, her blond hair exploding over her shoulders in the half-light.