Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street Read Online Free Page A

of us. Bad taste.” Warren had noticed that Chas loved to be teased about his preppy clothes and purposefully played up the outrageous colors so popular with that crowd.
    Chas laughed and directed Warren out to the foyer, then through a door that opened to a long, columned stone pergola. The house extended from two long Ls around a court, which contained a broad limestone patio with steps leading down to a massive swimming pool. To the left of the pool facing away from the main section of the house, the pergola fronted a row of guest suites. A matching pergola across the pool fronted steps to the beach, and the Atlantic Ocean. At the far end of the pool, a sculpture of a nude female figure at the center of a fountain created a gentle splash of water, which echoed within the court and blended with the sound of the breakers.
    “That’s a Frishmuth, isn’t it?” Warren asked, pointing at the fountain.
    “Jesus, Hament, Corelli is right. You do know everything.” Chas opened a door to one of the guest rooms. “That’s a Frishmuth, all right. Gramps evidently knew her.”
    “Nah, I don’t know everything , I just paid attention in art history because the professor was so hot.”
    Actually, Warren’s mother, Susan, an art historian, had taught him about painting and sculpture before she and his father had split up, and he’d kept the passion through school and an unpaid internship at the Guggenheim during the summer of his freshman year. When she had moved to Cambridge, she gave up custody of Warren to Ken, and since Warren’s brother, Danny, was at boarding school and spent his summers working in the top hospitals and labs in Boston, Danny wound up much closer to their mother. Warren stepped past Chas into the bedroom, a large, bright space with muted, pastel-upholstered furniture and the anomaly of two twin beds.
    “Pretty shabby accommodations, wouldn’t you say?” Part of Chas’s charm was the way he professed amazement at the luxury that surrounded him. The windows on the far wall looked over a small, formal garden filled with roses and vines climbing over bright white arbors. The property was grand and yet the scale somehow livable, and every detail had been meticulously planned.
    “Not bad at all. But I see you’ve provided at least one obstacle to my love life. Maybe you can prep me. What’s the best line to use when I’m on this bed, the girl’s on that bed, and I’ve got to get one of us to move? Really, I’m lost here. Help me.”
    “Hament, I have faith. If you manage to get some girl back here, she’ll probably volunteer to push the beds together for you.”
    “She may have to after this stupid tennis tournament. Let’s swim.” Warren shucked his travel clothes and pulled on a brand-new pair of Polo boxer swim trunks. Two nights before, he’d carefully removed the horse-and-rider logo, which he hated. There was something grasping about that trademark, given that Ralph Lauren was the son of a Jewish housepainter named Lifshitz and had probably never been within fifty feet of a polo pony. But there was no denying he had a genius for classic style.
    After a race up and back in the pool, which left Warren the surprisingly winded winner, they toweled off, and Chas told him to change into his tennis clothes and they’d go practice a bit. Warren went back to his room and pulled out one set of Fred Perry whites that he’d laundered the night before, and his two Head racquets. He’d arranged to play against a pro at Crosstown tennis courts over the days before break, hoping he could shake the rust out of his game. The savings from his commodities earnings were getting a little lean, but he still had enough for tuition and rent through the end of school, and to keep up the checks he’d been sending to his dad every month. His mother’s new boyfriend, a lawyer, had relieved any need to help her, although, after meeting him, Warren doubted that would last too long. His dad never asked for any