Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street Read Online Free
Author: Mike Offit
rearview mirror, and only a few moments later he was signaled to pull over with a brief blare of the siren.
The uniformed and armed man who emerged from the vehicle came up beside Warren’s window and tipped his hat. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t recognize your car. Who are you visiting?” It wasn’t clear to Warren if this man was actually a police officer or simply a private security guard.
“Hi. My name is Warren Hament, from New York, and I’m visiting the Harpers.”
“Oh, yes. They’re up the road about a half mile on the right. The gray columns. Thank you, Mr. Hament.”
The man turned and walked back to his car, and Warren noticed as he drove on that he was followed and watched until he had pulled into the driveway. The short coral-gravel driveway opened to a circular car park that held an old Volkswagen Bug, an aging Mercedes sedan, and a Ford station wagon. The façade of the house was neoclassic, of cut limestone, surrounded by dense vegetation that made judging its dimensions impossible. As he rang the bell at the broad teak door, the security man was still watching from the road, waiting to see him greeted.
Galbreath Harper had founded the American branch of his family’s London and Edinburgh bank in 1935. What had been a small investment advisory grew into a major private bank and investment manager by the early 1950s. They were respected for their honest advisory work, and banking acumen. When he failed to have any sons and his daughter evinced no interest in the business, he sold the firm to a German bank for a reported $270 million. Since then, he had been an economic adviser to two presidents and had amassed one of the best collections of Pre-Raphaelite art in the world. He had donated a great deal of it to the Boston Athenaeum and made the seed contribution toward building a new wing, named for him, to house the works. Chas was proud of his background and did nothing to hide it. The Harper’s money came from an era when bankers actually helped build companies and create new and viable businesses. There was no doubt that he would work with his family’s fortune, although he might spend a few years learning about investments at a bank after graduation.
Like many of his generation who had succeeded after the Depression, “Gal” Harper built himself winter homes in Islesboro, Maine, and tiny Hobe Sound, Florida. His house, like all the other great structures along the beach, was referred to as a “cottage,” although it had nine bedrooms and was built of Indiana limestone in the style of a Roman villa. From the moderately scaled entry, a grand square foyer opened, its cream-marble floors worn smooth, but highly polished. Through a broad opening directly ahead was the parlor, or living room, decorated in bright yellow chintzes and a finely woven coir carpet, with fifteen-foot-high arched French doors that opened out to a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. The furniture was oversize and comfortable looking, and every table held a small collection of objects. Warren was invited in to wait in the living room, where he was drawn to a group of tiny, albino sea creatures nestled at the base of an imposing Chinese vase that had been wired as a lamp. He gingerly lifted a minuscule crab, its shell as smooth as stone, and every feature crisp, reproduced in perfect detail.
“My grandfather found those in Dakar. They’re all made of ivory—before it became illegal. Neat, huh?” Chas had come in from one of the wings.
“Incredible.”
“Yeah, they were made for some prince about three or four hundred years ago, and now here they are in our living room. You want to take a swim?” Chas was in a pair of the most garish swim trunks Warren had ever seen. They were surfer length and baggy, with bright blue, orange, and fuchsia flowers everywhere. In them, Chas’s lean, taut body looked almost sticklike.
“If you’re going to wear those, let’s hit the ocean. No shark will come within a mile
The uniformed and armed man who emerged from the vehicle came up beside Warren’s window and tipped his hat. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t recognize your car. Who are you visiting?” It wasn’t clear to Warren if this man was actually a police officer or simply a private security guard.
“Hi. My name is Warren Hament, from New York, and I’m visiting the Harpers.”
“Oh, yes. They’re up the road about a half mile on the right. The gray columns. Thank you, Mr. Hament.”
The man turned and walked back to his car, and Warren noticed as he drove on that he was followed and watched until he had pulled into the driveway. The short coral-gravel driveway opened to a circular car park that held an old Volkswagen Bug, an aging Mercedes sedan, and a Ford station wagon. The façade of the house was neoclassic, of cut limestone, surrounded by dense vegetation that made judging its dimensions impossible. As he rang the bell at the broad teak door, the security man was still watching from the road, waiting to see him greeted.
Galbreath Harper had founded the American branch of his family’s London and Edinburgh bank in 1935. What had been a small investment advisory grew into a major private bank and investment manager by the early 1950s. They were respected for their honest advisory work, and banking acumen. When he failed to have any sons and his daughter evinced no interest in the business, he sold the firm to a German bank for a reported $270 million. Since then, he had been an economic adviser to two presidents and had amassed one of the best collections of Pre-Raphaelite art in the world. He had donated a great deal of it to the Boston Athenaeum and made the seed contribution toward building a new wing, named for him, to house the works. Chas was proud of his background and did nothing to hide it. The Harper’s money came from an era when bankers actually helped build companies and create new and viable businesses. There was no doubt that he would work with his family’s fortune, although he might spend a few years learning about investments at a bank after graduation.
Like many of his generation who had succeeded after the Depression, “Gal” Harper built himself winter homes in Islesboro, Maine, and tiny Hobe Sound, Florida. His house, like all the other great structures along the beach, was referred to as a “cottage,” although it had nine bedrooms and was built of Indiana limestone in the style of a Roman villa. From the moderately scaled entry, a grand square foyer opened, its cream-marble floors worn smooth, but highly polished. Through a broad opening directly ahead was the parlor, or living room, decorated in bright yellow chintzes and a finely woven coir carpet, with fifteen-foot-high arched French doors that opened out to a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. The furniture was oversize and comfortable looking, and every table held a small collection of objects. Warren was invited in to wait in the living room, where he was drawn to a group of tiny, albino sea creatures nestled at the base of an imposing Chinese vase that had been wired as a lamp. He gingerly lifted a minuscule crab, its shell as smooth as stone, and every feature crisp, reproduced in perfect detail.
“My grandfather found those in Dakar. They’re all made of ivory—before it became illegal. Neat, huh?” Chas had come in from one of the wings.
“Incredible.”
“Yeah, they were made for some prince about three or four hundred years ago, and now here they are in our living room. You want to take a swim?” Chas was in a pair of the most garish swim trunks Warren had ever seen. They were surfer length and baggy, with bright blue, orange, and fuchsia flowers everywhere. In them, Chas’s lean, taut body looked almost sticklike.
“If you’re going to wear those, let’s hit the ocean. No shark will come within a mile
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