The minute he walked into the living room, Warren was relieved at his choice of clothes. He’d considered white pants with a white shirt and blazer, but that made shoes difficult, and he didn’t want to look ready for sailing. After a few moments of deliberation, he went with old Brooks Brothers khakis, a blue oxford with rolled-up sleeves, and a pair of slightly worn Tretorn tennis shoes. He carried the blazer in case.
His outfit closely matched everyone else’s, except for that of several older men, who were wearing pants and jackets in indescribably iridescent colors. He remembered a line a caddy had once told him: “Golf is just white folks’ excuse to dress like fools.” For a certain set of people, no excuse was necessary.
As he walked into the room, he snagged a small hors d’oeuvre from a tray that was laid out and one of the maids took his drink order. As he made his way toward a group of six people on the patio, Cornelia Harper lassoed him with a practiced arm.
“We meet at last. I’m Cornelia, and you have made Chas a celebrity. Straight sets from Ray Karr is absolutely biblical.” It took about one millisecond for Warren to like everything about this woman. He knew it was an art, but every gesture, every word, was somehow meant to put him at his ease and make him feel welcome.
“Well, I think the Karrs were a bit off their game today. I guess the new blood confused them.” Warren had been led into a group sitting comfortably in plumply cushioned rattan chairs. Cornelia leaned against the arm of one, and Warren mimicked her as he spoke. His drink arrived, and he gladly gulped it before he was introduced.
“Warren Hament, this is Gran Beal, Jim Metcalf, the Karrs, whom you know all too well, and Frances Benson. Warren is Chas’s new doubles partner and is evidently also carrying him through business school.” Warren shook hands all around, and after a polite moment of small talk gravitated to Austin Karr, the closest to him in age.
“Sorry about that lob. I had no other play.” Warren had caught Austin out of position during a key point and made him look bad with a topspin lob over his head late in the match.
“Hey, it was a good shot. Besides, Harper’s been trying to win this tournament for years. He just needed a good partner. You’re way out of our league.” Warren was surprised at the compliment. “And, hey, it’s good for my old man to get a whipping around here once in a while. Most everyone’s too boozed up to teach him a lesson.”
“Tell me something, is there usually an audience like that for friendly doubles tournaments down here? I felt like we were at Wimbledon.” About twenty people had wandered over and watched the match, and they’d even wound up with a few younger kids as ball boys. Warren had played a lot of matches, but was unaccustomed to applause from a gallery.
“Everybody down here watches everything. Everything.” Austin finished his drink and waved for another. “And there’s no such thing as a friendly tournament. You’re going to love it.”
“I guess that depends. Where do you live if it’s not ’down here’?”
“I’m up in New York too. I sell fixed income for Morgan.”
“No kidding? I was thinking about looking into sales and trading jobs when school’s over.” Warren had started studying the investment banking firms, trying to pick the one that would allow for the fastest advancement. He had decided that being in corporate finance, where they advised big companies and worked endless hours, wasn’t for him. He wanted to be on the trading side, where the daily action was, preferably in the mortgage or futures area. “I was thinking about Weldon Brothers.” Warren also finished his drink.
“Weldon!” Austin snorted. “That’s a tough shop. Real competitive, bottom-line traders’ house, like Salomon. You better be ready to hit the ground running there, boy, and watch your back. For a salesman like me, that place is no picnic.” Austin shifted on his feet.
“What about Goldman?” Warren asked. They had a reputation as the smartest, most ethical firm on the Street.
“Ugh. Great place if you can get a job. A close friend of mine has been there for four years. If you’re on the partner track, it’s a gold mine. But, Jesus, the things he says they do for a buck. It’s unbelievable!” Austin shook his head.
“Like what?” Warren was curious.
“Well, he told me this amazing story. Basically, they were hired to advise a big finance company on a sale of some assets, and evidently then told the client one portfolio was so bad no one would buy it, except Goldman, as a favor. So, they bought it themselves and a few weeks later sold it for like a fifty-million-dollar profit. So, maybe that was the plan all along. They knew the portfolio was worth a ton more. It sounded to me like they never even showed it to anybody until they had bought it! He makes it sound like they do stuff like that all the time.”
“Jesus. That’s scary. Why would they do something like that? It’s got to be illegal.” Warren was stunned. Goldman touted itself as the cleanest and the best.
“Yeah. I know! Hey, anyway, that’s what he told me. He was probably just making it up or boasting. Who knows what they really do? All I know is that partners there can make eight figures a year! The minions make less than the competition pays, but there’s that gold ring out there if you work twenty-four/seven for like ten years.” Karr’s voice had gone from sardonic to almost awestruck.
There was a moment of silence while Warren contemplated the conversation and the contact he had just made. During the lull, Eliza Roberts and a beautiful, reddish blond-haired girl came in from the patio.
“Whoa! Who are they?” Austin’s eyebrows shot up and he gestured to the pair.
“The dark-haired one’s Eliza Roberts, and she goes to school with Chas and me. The other one, I hope, is going to fall helplessly in love with me.” Warren was staring at the newcomer, wondering where she had materialized from.
“Wow. Get in line.” Karr snuffled a laugh nervously as the two, both in summer print dresses, approached.
“Hey, Warren! Heard you were the big stud on the tennis court today. Trying to hustle these poor WASPs?” Eliza gave him a push on the shoulder as he stood up, momentarily knocking him off-balance.
“Hey, take it easy on me, Eliza… Jeez! This is Austin Karr, one of Chas’s victims. Eliza Roberts.” Warren gestured between the two before he turned toward the newcomer. “And so I may never forget, who on earth are you?”
“I’m Larisa Mueller.” Her faced flushed slightly, and she shook Austin’s hand.
“Hey, Hament, wake up. Larisa’s in our macro class.” Eliza punched him on the shoulder.
“You go to Columbia?” Warren said incredulously. “I can’t believe it.”
“Well, if you spent a little more time around school and a little less screwing around, you might know a few more people.” A lesser shove punctuated Eliza’s barb. “And what do you do, Austin?” She turned on him, batting her eyelashes, speaking in an exaggerated Southern drawl.
“I, um, sell bonds in New York.” He looked down into his drink as he spoke.
“And tell me, is that something to be ashamed of?” Larisa had detected the hesitancy in Karr’s voice and seen his eyes drop.
“Well, around here, guys like me are just the indentured servants.” Austin gestured with his drink.
“Yeah, scraping by on a half a million a year,” Eliza rejoined in a mocking tone.
Cornelia Harper interrupted the conversation by announcing dinner was served. To his vast pleasure, Warren discovered he was seated directly between Larisa and Mrs. Harper. The dinner conversation centered around politics, with virtually all present noticeably conservative Republican in viewpoint. Warren seemed to find a willing ally in Mrs. Harper while he engaged in a debate with the senior Karr about the merits of President Reagan’s policies. Warren felt they didn’t go far enough, and that government spending cuts across the board would be the only sure way to avert a disaster at the end of a brief rainbow of prosperity. Mrs. Harper seemed to feel this was a capital notion, so long as the bulk of the cuts came in social and entitlement programs, accompanied by bigger tax cuts for the higher-income brackets. Ray Karr evidently felt that all the poor, blacks, and Hispanics in the nation should be relocated to a vast military encampment in North Dakota and assigned to manufacturing any product that a bountiful supply of cheap, unskilled labor could benefit, while also busting all the labor unions in the country. “We’d give ’em food, clothing, shelter, and birth control—more than they’d ever get themselves.” After a few minutes of this unappealing conversation, Warren let it drift away, so he could focus on Larisa, who had remained mostly silent.