CHAPTER FIFTEEN
December 30, 1995
A day before New Year’s Eve, Gustavia Harbor was a bowlful of envy. Snug in the leeward side of St. Bart’s on the northeastern edge of the Caribbean, it was no place to be if you weren’t comfortable with the limitations of your personal wealth. During the tourist season, from the week before Christmas through April, the tiny little harbor was almost completely filled with enormous yachts. Each was more outrageous than its neighbor: an 84-foot Hatteras next to a 100-foot Denison next to a 118-foot Tri-deck passenger yacht next to a 140 foot Picchiotti. The staterooms contained giant-screen TVs, the galleys Sub-Zero refrigerators and restaurant-quality stoves. Inside were built-in hot tubs, queen-size beds, bidets. Their owners were Saudi Arabian princes, sugar heiresses, real estate tycoons, CEOs, assorted old money types. The yachts spent the summer in Greece or the French Rivera, the winter in Gustavia. They were hotels that float, accommodating up to forty-two passengers, plus a full crew with captain, cook and entertainment director. The teak and brass were so shiny it made your eyes hurt from squinting. Bunched together all in one claustrophobic little harbor, the display of opulence was enough to make your head spin.
Warrington and his model girlfriend, Martina, first noticed the spectacle of yachts when they checked in at the villa he was renting at the top of the volcanic hill Gustavia rested against. From up there, the biggest town in St. Bart’s appeared below, a beautiful little Caribbean locale. There was a stone fort at the harbor entrance and narrow streets snaking up the hill past wooden shacks painted pink, turquoise, orange and green. It was the typical progeny of imperialistic football, “discovered” by Christopher Columbus four years after he “discovered” America, and named after his brother, Bartholomew. Over the years it belonged to everybody—first the French, then the Swedes, then the Brits, then back to the French. Its streets bore evidence of all three conquering kingdoms. The town itself was named after a Swedish king, while the streets bore names like Rue Victor Hugo and Rue des Normands. The stone Catholic church at the center of town was the tallest structure and dated back to the seventeenth century. Until the early 1980s, St. Bart’s had been a sleepy little place. Then rich people and their celebrity friends discovered that it was one of only a handful of islands with absolutely no high-rise hotels, no clanging casinos and no cruise ship armies descending at noon. It was the Caribbean of old, and they decided to own it.
By New Year’s Eve 1995, St. Bart’s was the place to be for the social register set, which was precisely why Warrington had rented a villa up the hill in Gustavia. From his room, he and Martina looked down on the harbor and its armada of excess. He tried to figure out which one was the yacht owned by Coco Chanel, where he’d been invited to spend New Year’s Eve, but he couldn’t see from this far away.
After unpacking, he and Martina wandered down the hill into town and strolled to the stone quay, taking in the yachts one at a time. Most still had Christmas trees and lights mounted on their aft decks, and there was hardly any room for more. Every spot dockside was full, and most of the moorings were taken up as well. This was the week to be in St. Bart’s. Warrington found the Chanel yacht and was impressed. Its crew in matching whites could be seen aboard, scrubbing and polishing in anticipation of the big party the next night. Warrington couldn’t wait.
A few years back, when he was a struggling actor forced to live off his father’s income, he couldn’t stand the idea of spending the night amid all that money. Now he could handle it, and the reason was simple—now he finally had enough of his own not to feel left out. He was not intimidated by a Chanel yacht or any other yacht. It actually seemed to him something that should be part of his life, now that he was a success.
For a few more years, he had tried in vain to make it as an actor. He trudged from audition to audition and landed cheesy TV commercial gigs. He slogged through one more feature, a B-list sci-fi number called Time Walker that was destined for predawn TV. In the end, he realized he wasn’t meant for the thespian life. His ego couldn’t take it. If he was going to be famous, he needed to be famous quickly, and without too much effort. He abandoned the pursuit of fame and embraced a new crusade—the unfettered pursuit of money. He became a stock picker.
He hadn’t graduated Villanova, but he studied hard for his Series 7, the test required to become a broker. His scores weren’t great, but he passed and set out to find a job. It was the early 1990s, and the market was a more sober world than during the 1980s. He landed a spot at Gruntal, a one-hundred-year-old midsize firm with a sterling reputation, by touting his investor contacts in the Maryland equestrian set. Use what you know. He made himself a man in demand and, more importantly, a man of his own destiny. For the first time in his entire adult life, he wasn’t taking a red cent from his father.
He was there for his clients. He returned their calls quickly. He bet conservatively, rarely shorted, let his clients—especially his institutional clients overseas—know exactly what he was up to. He made them feel comfortable. He earned their trust, and he believed that trust was the thing that would make him wealthy. Without it, you could make good money—but only short-term. He was in this for the long haul, and he was sure he could succeed in ways that would make his philandering father in Palm Springs proud, or at least a little envious.
That was a liberating feeling, not having to rely on your parents. Warrington was done with the frivolous twenties and working his way toward the end of his thirties, so he needed that feeling of independence. He figured he was bringing in $250,000 worth of business to Gruntal a month, impressive by any standard. On his trip to St. Bart’s, he’d decided it was okay for him to spend a little on himself.
Already he’d bought himself a red Ferrari. He’d landed a studio on Central Park South with a stunning view of the park, and he was living the Manhattan high life every night of the week. He had learned all the tricks of living large—tip the hostesses, drop the names of his family’s old-money friends, discreetly mention his own blood relation to the Post cereal fortune and those United States senators. Talk horses—that always worked. Before long, he’d figured out a trick with models. Hot new Manhattan restaurants liked having lots of models sitting around looking gorgeous, so Warrington would go out of his way to find a gaggle of them and waltz into whatever trendy spot he’d read about in New York. He’d tell the women they’d get a free meal, and the restaurants always complied. They liked having him and his harem around. It was like investing in the décor.
He’d kept Martina interested longer than most by lavishing her with gifts and attention. Not that he wanted to settle down. He was beginning to think his father’s “First I look at the purse” advice about beauty and money was pretty sound. Martina arrived with a surfeit of beauty but a deficit of cash. So while she was accompanying him solo to St. Bart’s for the party of the year, he was not limiting his options. If some other beautiful blonde happened to cross his path, he would surely succumb to her temporary charms. And it helped when they thought you were rolling in it.
He and Martina wandered in from quayside to the town, stopping at one designer shop after another. This was a town that knew its constituency. He watched Martina spend his money at the high-end shops, acquiring brand names to display like military insignia. Levi’s and the Gap made you a private or a corporal or a sergeant; Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger took you up through the ranks. Louis Vuit ton and Versace made you a general. Strolling through this little town, Warrington felt content. He felt no envy. He could afford this. Jason was far behind him now.
New Year’s Eve 1995
The hour of midnight was fast approaching and the breeze carried the scent of vanilla and jasmine. All along the dock the parties roared; Madonna was alleged to be aboard one yacht, Jimmy Buffet on the next. Generators working overtime, liquor flowing like a cataract. On the Coco Chanel yacht, Warrington soaked it all in.
Most of those present were just rich, but rumors occasionally surfaced of celebrity sightings. Puff Daddy was aboard. Bill Cosby had been seen. Sting was taking a leak in the aft head. With plenty of top-shelf whiskey swirling around inside him, Warrington was laughing along with the crowd when one of his New York stockbroker pals, a fellow master of the universe named Lance, introduced him to a guy he said might be helpful.
“Warrington,” Lance said. “This is Cary Cimino. Cary, Warrington.”
The guy kind of stood out. Most of these people on this crowded boat carried with them a sense of entitlement mixed with a desire for decorum. They disdained loud talk and bad manners; they ridiculed poor grammar, and looked down upon 98 percent of the world’s population. Cary Cimino would definitely be a target for their derision. He possessed an unnatural George Hamilton-like tan, laughed too loud, and cursed like a longshoreman. He was sitting at the bar, his extremely expensive Rolex off his wrist and placed prominently next to his drink to be noticed. He shook Warrington’s hand and offered a smile filled with white teeth. Warrington could tell Martina didn’t like the guy at all. Warrington wasn’t sure what to make of him.
They began the usual Wall Street dance, each trying to discern if the other had something to offer. In no time at all, Cary had mentioned he was once a partner at Bear Stearns and had gone out on his own. He was vague with details. He dropped that he had an MBA from Stanford, and mentioned that he worked out every day for two hours. Warrington was beginning to drift, watching the beautiful blondes with tan lines float by in a dream, when Cary suddenly got his attention.
“I’ve got blocks of stock with a 40 percent discount,” he said.
Warrington was aware of the ramifications of a 40 percent discount. He’d heard stories of brokers getting stock at a discount, usually 10 or 15 percent, which was really just a bribe. The broker would sometimes split the discount with his customer, or sometimes not mention it at all. It depended on what kind of guy you were. At that time, Warrington was the kind of guy who had nothing to do with discounts, but 40 percent certainly caught his attention.
“What are you taking home right now as a broker?” Cary asked.
“One hundred fifty a month,” Warrington said, not sure if that was good or bad.
“What’s your net?”
“It’s three fifty net.”
“That’s shit,” Cary said.
That let the wind out of Warrington’s sales. He’d thought he was doing great. He was a top producer at Gruntal; he was able to buy pretty much whatever he needed and never had to ask his father or, worse yet, his stepfather for help. He said nothing in reply.
“I can show you how to gross one million dollars a month,” Cary went on. “You’re buying big board stocks; you’re wasting your time. I’ll show you how to make some serious green.”
He pulled out a roll of $40,000 wrapped in a plain rubber band. Although he was drinking someone else’s top-shelf liquor on a multimillion-dollar yacht, amidst people who possessed stock portfolios that could single-handedly pull certain small Latin American countries out of debt, Warrington could not take his eyes off that roll of bills. It was so real. It was naked money.
He leaned forward to hear Cary Cimino better. He didn’t want to miss a word.