Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (26 page)

“Nah. I can’t keep it. Just bill me for it, and I’ll figure something out.” Warren felt bad about wasting six hundred bucks, but was resigned to it. Besides, Steinman had promised him that he had a way to get Weldon to pay for it. “Maybe you can get one of the guys to give me a lift over to the Hertz lot. Or Avis. I don’t care.”

‘Tell you what. I’ll drive you over. In the Turbo. But I’m going to go
real
fast.” She picked the keys up off the counter.

Warren was surprised and reacted quickly. “Hey, if you’re going to be my chauffeur, why don’t I buy you a drink or something? Like dinner, after you get off work. It’d be the least I could do. I could come pick you up in my Citation.” Warren had a nervous grin on his face. He’d never been good at delivering pickup lines, and he realized to his horror that he’d actually used the words
pick
and
up
in his pitch.

She gave him a long look and pulled out the rental form he had filled out at the airport. She nodded a few times. “New York … Weldon Brothers? Is that like Warner Brothers?”

“No. It’s Wall Street, not show biz.”

“Oh, it’s different? I didn’t know.”

Warren laughed. “Well, you may have a point.”

“I like the way you laugh. Plus, you’re not in movies or TV.… Okay! We’ll have a drink, then I’ll drop you at Hertz.” She yelled into the office behind her, “Carlos! I’ll be out a while! Watch the desk!”—then came out from behind the counter.

“Sounds good to me! Let’s go. Should I ride in back? Where’s your hat?” Sam slipped off the striped uniform shirt, which she tossed on the counter. In her jeans, boots, and T-shirt, she looked like a magazine ad. Warren couldn’t believe she was actually coming with him. They headed out the door. “You’ll hold the door open for me, right?” Warren said. “And call me sir?”

“Don’t push it,
Warren
.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder, then waited elaborately for him to open the driver’s door for her.

When she heard he was staying at the Bel-Air, she wanted to have a drink there. She said she loved the patio, then kept up a solid stream of small talk during the short trip down Sunset Drive to Stone Canyon, mostly about how she’d negotiated the deal for the Bentley originally, buying it from the girlfriend of a producer for less than 40 percent of its cost just three months before. The car valet was even more impressed the second time when he got a look at Sam, who Warren had decided looked better driving it than he ever could.

The outdoor terrace was beautiful, shaded by tall trees, and fragrant with bougainvillea and eucalyptus. While they waited for the drinks, which were martinis, they filled each other in a bit on who they were. Warren described himself as a failed athlete and Wall Street geek, and Sam described herself as a former actress who actually owned the car rental lot. Her business manager had put some of her earnings from a season on a sitcom and two national commercials into it. He’d stolen the rest of her money, along with most of the investment of a few studio guys who had also financed the lot. They had been arrested for drug dealing, and she wound up managing the place while they did time and she looked for a partner or a buyer. She didn’t mind working there, and the lot was making good money, most of which she got to keep. She lived in Santa Monica, but came from San Diego. Her father was a surgeon, and her mother a nurse. They’d spent her junior high school years in Landstuhl, where he was a trauma surgeon at the big army hospital. To prove it, she ordered the next round in perfect German:
“Zwei weitere martinis, mein lieber!”

She had one brother who was a golf pro, and another who flew F-14s for the navy. She had gone to UCLA film school, but discovered she hated everything about show business and wasn’t too sad to leave it behind.

“Well, that’s interesting. Do you not get enough to eat on the lot?” He pointed to the empty tray of olives and nuts, which she had completely demolished.

She smiled. “Fast metabolism. Gotta feed the fire!”

When Warren told her that he was in town to meet with Warner, her eyebrows arched; then he told her it was the bank, not the studio.

“Hey, aren’t they the sleazeballs who buy all those crap bonds, or jerk bonds, or something?”

“Junk bonds. Yeah. How’d you know that?” Warren was genuinely surprised.

“I read about them. Plus, my crook business manager was in bed with the guy that runs that place and the old man who owns it. They did some big deal with this guy with a ridiculous hairpiece and dentures who was evidently a billionaire.” She was looking at the bottom of her glass, which was empty.

“Sounds like Mike Milken. Ugh! Man, those were strong drinks. Where to next?” Warren stretched and yawned.

“You know what I’d really like to do?” She was tilting a little bit to her left, and the glass in her right hand was sideways.

“Please don’t say go for a drive. There’s no way I can get behind the wheel.” Warren was spinning a bit himself. He rarely drank, and never martinis. The thought of a moving vehicle made him slightly nauseous.

“Nah. I wanna go for a swim in their pool. That’s what I wanna do.”

“Great idea. But I don’t think they’re big on skinny-dipping here. Maybe we can buy you a suit at the gift shop?” Just at that moment, the idea of seeing her naked made Warren’s blood boil.

“Well, I’ve got on black underwear. Looks kind of like a bikini. I’m up for it if you are.” She was serious, and no way was he going to offer any resistance to seeing her in her underwear.

“Okay. Let’s go to the room, get robes. I’ve got a suit. Towels too. Then swim.” His mouth was working slowly, and his mind had creaked to a stop, as another part of him took over the thinking.

“Hey, Tarzan. Get check. Pay check. Then go. Oomgawa,” she mimicked him, and made an ape face. The waiter appeared, magically, with the check. Warren signed it and rose shakily to his feet. She followed him, and they made their way unsteadily down the narrow pathways and hidden courtyards to his room. He fished the key out of his jacket and opened the door for her.

“Hey, this is nice.” She stepped into the foyer and past the dressing room, into the peach-stuccoed bedroom, and opened up the sheer curtains that shaded the French doors to the terrace. “Very nice. You must know somebody. Or they must know you. Is that what I think it is?” She nodded her head to the fountainlike Jacuzzi and opened the doors.

“Yeah. It’s actually kind of nice. Wait, I’ll get my suit.” He started to rummage through his suitcase.

“To hell with the pool. This’ll do just fine.” She pulled her shirt over her head and unfastened her jeans as she stepped out onto the patio.

“You
are
wearing black underwear, aren’t you.” Warren couldn’t help but notice she was in great shape, her stomach defined, small veins visible on her biceps and even at her pelvic bone.

“Yup. What color’re yours?”

“Sky-blue boxers.” He pulled off his shirt and stepped out onto the patio.

“You ever drive one of these things before?” She crossed back to the doors and unbuckled his belt for him.

“I’ve got a license and everything.” He ran his hands down her shoulders. She got his pants open and pushed them down. She brushed his lips with hers.

“Then let’s take it for a spin.” She leaned into his arms, and as they kissed, he slipped the clasp and slid the straps of her bra down. She let it fall, and he kicked away his pants with his shoes. Her skin was a dark bronze against his paleness, and he broke the kiss to run his lips over her throat and down her chest, covering her breasts with small kisses. She held his head with her hands, pulling him back up for another kiss. His hands were running up and down her back, and over her bottom.

“Hey. How about that hot tub?” She turned in his arms and, with her back to him, slid her panties off. He reached around and cupped her breasts in his hands, and she stroked his thighs with her palms. She could feel him rising against her, and she reached back to the waistband of his shorts and tugged them down. They caught for a moment, then dropped. He moaned as the sensitive skin pressed against the smooth, cool skin of her rump, the downy hairs at the small of her back tickling him. He bent his head around as she leaned back, and they kissed again. He leaned into her, his hands moving down her flat stomach to probe her.

Warren turned her toward him, then lifted her in his arms and sat her on the edge of the tub. He knelt in front of her, with his head between her thighs, and gently caressed her with his lips and tongue. She held on to his shoulders, guiding him. He could feel her excitement peaking and intensified his effort slightly, as she rocked with a series of crests, making a small, squeaky grunting sound deep in her throat as she came. Her pace slowed, and he rose to his feet, placing himself in position as she slid forward slightly to accommodate him. Their eyes met for a moment, and as an answer to the question in his eyes, she reached down and guided him into her. His breath short and strained, his body taut, he moved until he felt himself ready to explode.

She sensed him building, swelling inside her, and slid her feet down off his back to the ground, giving her more leverage. She ground her hips with him, slamming against him, the force of his climax buckling his knees. He half collapsed over her, his body quavering with short spasms as he recovered. They rested in that position for a few moments.

“Jesus. Wow.” Warren was still shaking and half rolled off her.

“I’ll be right back. Meet me in the tub.” Sam got to her feet and slipped into the room.

Warren climbed wearily into the tub after turning on the timer, discreetly camouflaged with painted Mexican tiles. In a minute, she reappeared, holding two small bottles of juice.

“I love minibars. But I’m drunk enough! I propose a toast.” She handed him a bottle as she climbed in beside him. “To Bentleys and Bel Air!” She clinked his glass and drank hers off.

“I’ll drink to that.” Warren sipped his apple juice contemplatively. They were quiet for a minute. “This is pretty great.”

“Mmmmmmmm.” The two of them leaned back, and the bubbling, warm water lulled them both, until the hum of the motor and the gurgling of the fountain filled the air.

It seemed as if an hour passed as they sipped their juice and half dozed in the water. Warren noticed how he didn’t have the tense, uneasy feeling he usually had after the few times he had ever had sex with a girl he hardly knew. She seemed familiar to him, and he was completely relaxed around her.

“You know”—her voice half startled him—“I don’t feel like getting dressed and getting the hell out of here. Not one little bit.” She looked him in the eyes and smiled.

“1 was just thinking the exact same thing. I was also going to say that I don’t usually do things…”

“Me either. Except I don’t
ever
do things like this.” She smiled again. “I guess you’re just lucky.”

“Or irresistible. Like you. Actually, it’s been a long time since I’ve done
anything
.” He splashed water lightly in her direction.

“Charmer. Well, I’m still on the pill, but I can hardly even remember why. C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’m just about poached.” She stepped out of the tub and scurried for a towel, throwing him one as he climbed out. “I’ll bet, if we tried real hard, we could get something pretty good to eat from room service.”

“You know, you just may be right.” He swung the patio door shut as they went inside, the pink afternoon light fading on the cypress trees.

twenty-nine

The next morning, Warren was surprised how well rested he felt when the phone woke him. Sam had stayed the night, and the room-service dinner had been just about perfect. They’d made love again, more slowly, and drifted off to sleep early. He had an hour to get ready, and when he realized they still had the car, he called Anson’s hotel and left a message that he’d meet him at Warner’s offices. Sam happily agreed to drop him off and take the car back to the office after she stopped at home. They shared a light breakfast on the patio in the morning sun, talking about his plans for the day, and she looked beautiful in the big terry robe, her hair a wild tangle.

“I know what’s going to happen now.” She had the sports pages of the
Los Angeles Times
open on her lap.

“What’s that?” Warren had showered, shaved, and dressed, ready to go.

“I’ll drop you off this morning, you’ll call me from the airport, and I’ll probably never see you again.” She got a pouty look on her face, pushing out her lips.

“I sincerely doubt that. Want to meet me in Pebble Beach when my outing’s over on Saturday? You play golf’?” He wasn’t sure he meant it at first, but as the words left his lips, he discovered he really did want to see her again, preferably immediately.

“The answer is yes and no. Hate the game. But I like those little carts. And you know what kind of a driver I am.” She gave him a sunny smile.

“Well, since you’re my new chauffeur, you’d better get hopping. I’ve got to go meet with the jerk-bond kings of LA, not to mention one of the most miserable human beings of all time, and it’s getting late.” He hooked his thumb in the air and bent over to kiss her.

“Oh, yessir! I’ll git de ve-hi-cle right away, boss!” Her tone was mocking.

“Hey, lose the attitude. I don’t pay you enough for that kind of sass.” He spanked her on the behind with the
Times,
and she giggled happily on her way to get dressed.

Warren hopped out of the Bentley a block down Wilshire Boulevard from Warner Savings and Loan’s Executive Office Building. The five-story, steel-and-glass monstrosity featured a billboard on its roof emblazoned with the bank’s ludicrous coat of arms. The warm day was clear and bright, but, Warren noticed, he was the only person on the sidewalk though he was surrounded by office buildings and apartment houses. It was LA exactly the way comedians described it.

He turned into Warner’s reception lobby, and cool air rushed past him as he opened the door. The receptionist sat behind a beautiful semicircular podium desk, made from tiger maple edged with brass. The floor was a carefully laid pattern of large ivory-marble blocks, and the walls were padded and upholstered in a rich art deco cream velvet. Warren couldn’t imagine how much the tasteful and serene space might have cost.