Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (15 page)

When he’d called, she asked exactly whom the dinner was with. Dougherty was evidently a big enough name to get the nod, and she was given the evening off by her supervisor. It was unusual for Corporate Finance people to mingle with salesmen or traders, like Warren and Dougherty, who were seen as almost exotic.

Warren recognized the address as impressive, but not until he and Larisa stepped out of the taxi did the full impact hit him, and he remembered reading about it in architecture class. Seven forty Park Avenue is at the northwest corner of Seventy-First Street, a massive yet articulated art deco tower that houses some of the wealthiest people on the planet. The lobby felt like a beautifully decorated bank vault, so solidly constructed that there was no sound of the street once the front door had closed behind them. One of the four doormen took their names and nodded that the Doughertys had said to go right up. Another showed them to an elevator, as the first announced them over an intercom. Warren noticed that an armed security man, who looked reasonably alert, sat at a desk.

This was one of the truly great buildings of New York. Constructed in 1929, it was designed by Rosario Candela, an architect who specialized in luxury high-rises in the era of prosperity that saw some of the city’s finest residential construction, planned and paid for before the Crash by its builder, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy’s grandfather. With masonry and steel exterior walls almost three feet thick, many fourteen-foot ceilings, and rooms of truly baronial proportions, it was, along with 2 East Sixty-Seventh Street, also built by Candela on Central Park, considered the absolute pinnacle of apartment living. It had been John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s home, and he’d bought the whole building before converting it to a cooperative in the fifties. Warren knew that the legendary but repugnant financier Saul Steinberg had moved in, investing almost $20 million and accumulating some fifteen thousand square feet. Steve Ross, the head of Warner Bros. lived here, too. Warren had read that by 1980 a buyer would need to show a cash net worth of over $50 million to even merit consideration by the building’s board of directors, who had the right to accept or reject potential buyers as neighbors. It seemed money was their only criterion, but there sure was plenty of it.

The carpeting muffled Warren’s and Larisa’s footsteps as they crossed the marble lobby to the faux-bois elevator doors. The elevator man delivered them to the eleventh floor, where they exited into a foyer of large-block limestone floors and cream silk damask walls. Two huge, light mahogany doors opened into the apartment, where Bill Dougherty stood, in gray flannel slacks and a white polo shirt under a yellow cardigan sweater, with the emblem of the Lyford Cay Club embroidered at the chest, to welcome them.

Warren introduced Larisa, and Bill explained that his wife, Megan, was on the telephone and would be right out. He ushered them in, through the apartment’s own grand foyer, past a sweeping staircase, to a comfortable library, filled with bird’s-eye-maple bookcases, where he offered them a seat and a drink. He filled their orders at a bar installed in a recess behind one bookcase.

“This is a beautiful apartment,” Larisa said, still standing, as she accepted the bourbon and water, “absolutely beautiful.”

“Thank you. It was my parents’ house. They left it to me, along with this bad back.” He made an exaggerated groan as he sat in one of the streamlined, bottle-green velvet club chairs. “Megan’s done a great job redoing it, but it almost never seems to end.”

As Bill was talking, Warren took in some of the details of the large, square room. On the east wall, to the left of a carved-wood fireplace, was a small frame holding four military medals, above a line drawing of what looked like Bill in an army uniform. To the right of the hearth was a painting, which Warren believed was a Marsden Hartley. Hung between the bookcases on the north wall was another, larger oil, of an immense flower, which Warren recognized as a Georgia O’Keeffe. Two Paul Manship bronzes were on the side tables by the sofa, and a cubist painting Warren could not identify was between the windows on the west wall. All those years listening to his mother describe paintings in museums and visiting the homes of his father’s wealthy clients had left Warren with a reflex to catalog the details of an extraordinary place such as the Doughertys’.

“You have some wonderful art,” Warren noted. “I love the Hartley.”

“I didn’t know you were interested. He’s always been one of my favorite artists. My mother actually knew him. He was quite an
artiste
.” Dougherty took a sip of his drink.

“It sounds like you had a pretty interesting family. Who was the war hero?” Warren pointed at the medal display as Bill gestured to them to sit on the upholstered sofa. The fabric looked as if it had been carved out of plush velvet into a subtle art deco graphic pattern that picked up the details and colors of the room.

“Please, sit. Actually, those were mine. I wasn’t much of a hero. I just survived, so they gave me a bunch of those things.” Bill waved his glass dismissively.

“You were in Vietnam?” Larisa seemed surprised.

“For two years and some.” He nodded slightly.

“Jeez, Captain Dougherty. What did you do?” Warren noted the rank from the drawing. For a moment he wondered if Malloran kept his medals on display. Somehow he doubted it.

“I was with an advance artillery unit. I had about fifty-five men and eight guns. Seventh Battalion. It was relatively safe, but very loud.” Everyone shared a brief laugh, and the older man changed the subject. ’Tell me, Larisa, what do you think of Weldon so far?”

“Honestly, I don’t really know. I spend all my time on the computer or in the library, so it’s more like being at school than actually working. If I ever worked this hard at school, though, I guess I’d have been sent to a psychiatrist or something. I haven’t really gotten around yet.” She smiled warmly and leaned forward when she spoke. Warren stopped for a moment and just looked at her. Her reddish blond hair was brushed smooth and swept back from her forehead, cascading to her shoulders. Her blouse, a white cotton tuxedo shirt, had a high collar that accentuated her neck and, together with the simple gold necklace she wore, framed her face in a way that made her high elegant cheekbones even more dramatic. Her gray flannel pants matched Bill’s, but they were cut slightly high at the cuff to expose Larisa’s perfect ankles over a pair of sensible but elegant gray pumps. A striking young woman, she exuded confidence and seemed comfortable in what could be an intimidating setting.

“Oh, don’t worry, that’ll change soon enough. You’ll get your first direct client assignment, and you won’t be a bookworm anymore. You’ll get around.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Am I supposed to like the concept of my girlfriend ’getting around’? What kind of a job is this, anyway?” Bill smiled and laughed slightly, but Larisa looked mildly annoyed. Warren added meekly, “Well, we all have to make sacrifices.”

Then, Megan Dougherty came into the room, a tall, rail-thin woman with a big head of raven hair. Her face had an austere beauty to it, and her complexion was pale yet luminous. She was a super-annuated version of Larisa, and seemed to have stepped directly out of a Pre-Raphaelite canvas. She smiled as the men rose and shook hands enthusiastically with Warren and Larisa as Bill introduced them.

“I’ve heard so much about you. Bill says you’ve taken quite a load off of him, so I owe you a debt of gratitude for that piece. He tells me you’re doing very well.” She accepted almost subconsciously the drink Bill handed her. She was wearing camel-colored flannel pants and a white silk shirt, with brown crocodile loafers, all effortlessly elegant, yet slightly casual. Rather than sit, she simply leaned against the arm of Bill’s chair.

“I’m still learning. Bill’s helping me,” Warren said, looking down modestly.

“And he tells me that you are one of the future stars, as well.” Megan looked at Larisa. “You two make quite a pair.”

“Some people might say that about you two. We were telling Bill how lovely we thought your home is,” Larisa replied. Warren noticed how Larisa’s cadence immediately adopted the older woman’s speech pattern, and even a little of her patrician lilt. It was a sales technique he used sometimes, and it was pretty effective, especially combined with flattery.

“Thank you. Would you like to see the rest of it? Bill will give you the grand tour while I make sure everything is moving along in the kitchen.” The invitation was not intended to be declined, and they were led through most of the fourteen rooms. The style was a rich combination of modernism and art deco, with an understated and comfortable opulence enhanced by the huge scale of the rooms. The bedroom, however, had a more classic touch, with Biedermeier furniture and an upholstered bed. The dining room featured a good-size Braque oil, which had obviously been the source for the colors of all the paints and fabrics used in the room. Warren followed from room to room, his image of Bill Dougherty changing by the moment. A million a year might cover the maintenance payments, staff, and insurance for this apartment after taxes. Clearly, the man sold bonds because he felt like it, not because he needed to. The income probably kept the help well paid and made nice tips for the doormen.

They sat down to dinner, which was served by a young Jamaican woman. Bill kept the wineglasses full, and by dessert they’d finished off three bottles of a 1970 Château Lynch-Bages. Together with the cocktails, the wine made Warren lose track of much of the conversation, except the coincidence that both Megan’s and Larisa’s mother had graduated from Smith. That had led to a comparison of mutual acquaintances, which led Warren to conclude that Larisa’s mother had been an aspiring socialite whose orbit had somehow transferred from Boston to the Charlottesville circuit. The strong coffee after the raspberries perked him up a bit, but the long day and the food still had him nodding off. He had enjoyed Bill’s stories about Weldon, and everyone had laughed at Warren’s various anecdotess about his school days, and Bill howled at Warren’s misadventures at military summer camp. When Warren sounded slightly apologetic he had never served in the military, Bill cut him off. “Trust me, Warren, you didn’t miss one single thing.” They retired to the library briefly, then Warren suggested it was time for him and Larisa to go.

Megan brought them their coats and waited until the elevator came to close the door. The elevator man made them too self-conscious to talk until they got into the taxi that was waiting.

Larisa started. “God, could you believe those two?’ Disdain was in her voice.

“Umm, how do you mean?” Warren felt drowsy, but the bile in her voice woke him up.

“What a couple of dilettantes. All that phony war stuff of his, and her charity stuff. I mean, living like that, with all their money, it’s kind of hollow, don’t you think? And what was it with her? She used the word
piece
so much? Like, ‘Yas, that was a mahvelous piece’ when you were talking about that movie. Or, ’We try not to think too much about that piece’ when you asked about Vietnam. I swear she must have said
piece
fifty times.” Larisa was staring straight ahead with narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, that was kind of strange.” Warren had noticed a lot of odd usages in Megan’s speech. He thought her less atrophied than he might have expected a woman in her position to be, with a mild wit. Her well-developed lockjaw, that almost motionless, inflected speech of the WASP, had confused him somewhat, as he had noticed during his years playing at their clubs that it was common among the socialites in New York and Boston, but not generally among the Irish.

There was a moment of silence, but Larisa’s animosity was palpable. “My mother used to tell me about people like that, where she grew up in Boston. Socialites. They spend their lives at events and inviting people over for intimate little dinners, but never have any real friends. I mean, those two never even talked about their children. It’s like they hardly exist. My grandpa called it the hornets’ nest. Said they didn’t do anything productive, but loved to sting each other.” Warren remembered that Larisa’s grandfather had been a senior explosives chemist for the Department of War and very much a part of the Virginia social elite.

Warren had seen several framed photographs of the Doughertys’ boys when he and Larisa had briefly toured their rooms, but Megan explained they were both at boarding school in Connecticut. Warren knew the school, having competed against their tennis team. He had played a tall, elegant boy with perfectly tutored strokes and used heavy spin shots to dissect him until he left the court crying. Warren’s dad had taught him to use this tactic when Warren was overpowered, and only the most disciplined opponent could overcome it.

“It’s hard to believe that he’s gone so far at Weldon, too. I mean, there isn’t anything going on in his head, really, is there? How can you stand him? Doesn’t he get on your nerves?” The Doughertys clearly pissed Larisa off for some reason. Warren didn’t exactly love Bill, but, given his background and status, he was a pretty pleasant guy.

“Well, he’s charming when he has to be. Most of his accounts like him. He comes from the days when you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to sell bonds. The most important thing was that you weren’t a crook. You know, good family, right schools. Clients knew they weren’t going to get bagged. Now, he just plays a lot of politics. Makes sure he gets the credit and always knows how to avoid the blame.” It didn’t bother Warren. He admired the man’s talent for deflecting criticism. Bill never talked back to guys like Malcolm Conover and let insults from traders pass like water off his back.

“I just hate people like that. We’ve got them all over the place in my department. I wind up covering for them, their mistakes, or their laziness, and then they wind up taking all the credit when things work out. I swear, there’s one guy, Doug Phillips, I can’t stand. I mean he’s just an AVP. I found all these errors in his presentation to one account, spent a whole night reworking the numbers, retyped it, reprinted the whole thing, and even rebound forty binders at three in the morning. He blows in at ten o’clock, picks ’em up, and never even thanks me. We got the fucking deal because I saved his ass, and he never says a word.” She was getting wound up, and Warren wanted to change the subject. He’d been thinking about work since six in the morning, and it was almost eleven thirty. He felt bloated and sapped and was dimly aware that he hadn’t worked out for almost three weeks. His pants even felt a little tight.