Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (10 page)

“Nope! No joke! That was exactly the way I imagined you’d look when I told you!” He felt a warm surge run through him … this had actually happened, and his girlfriend was ecstatic. Suddenly it seemed real.

“I don’t fucking believe it! No way!” She screamed, jumping up and down on the bathroom floor. “Yeeee-hah!” she let out a rodeo whoop, and jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, almost knocking him over. She started smothering him with little kisses. “Holy shit! Holy fucking shit! A job offer on your first round? A
placement
? Jesus!”

“Yeah, they made a big deal out of it. And they said I can get a decent bonus this year too, if I contribute.”

“
More
than fifty-two in your first year
for six months
? That’s
insane
! I made twenty-six at ITT last year,
including
my bonus. With an MBA, I might make forty all in if I go back. For twelve fucking months!” He had backed out of the bathroom and still supported her around his waist. “My little man is an investment banker! Hah!”

“Nope,” he said. She kissed him. “Just a low-life trader.”

She kissed him again. “That’s okay, sweetheart,” she said as they toppled back onto the bed, “I don’t mind slumming so long as the pay’s so good.”

nine

Frank Malloran wasn’t in bad shape for squash. Not exactly good shape, but he moved pretty well for a forty-two-year-old Weldon Corporate Finance managing director. Directors worked long hours and ate far too many fancy meals with clients. Warren had been hitting high lobs to Frank’s backhand, then short drop shots, to wear him out, and Frank was beginning to wheeze a bit. He was also starting to get pissed. The two weren’t saying a whole lot, and all you could hear was the resounding thwack of the racquets, and the squeak of their sneakers on the maple floor of the brightly lit squash court.

“Eight to three.” Warren announced the score as he prepared to serve.

“I know the fucking score,” Frank growled. His side ached a bit, but he didn’t want to let on.

“Hey, Frank, if you need a break—some CPR, a little oxygen—let me know. Really, there’s no rush.”

“Hey, Warren. Screw you. Lobbing little punk. Serve ’em up.” Warren hit a soft, deep serve, which Malloran scraped off the wall. Warren drove a backhand crosscourt, which the older man scrambled after and scooped up off his shoe tops. Warren volleyed the ball hard back to the same deep corner, then took Malloran ’s defensive lob and killed it into the front corner.

“You were right. Lobbing’s not my game. Had enough?” They were both sweating, although Frank looked as if he’d just taken a fully clothed shower.

“Enough? I’m just getting started. But Jillene’ll rip me a new one if you don’t get back in time for the afternoon session.” Frank opened the door to the court, and they headed out to the locker room. “God, you’ve only had three months at the firm, and fucking off already. Squash every Tuesday afternoon with a finance guy. Shameful.”

“Yeah, well, I wish this training program would end already. Who wants to be useless overhead? I want to be a producer. Besides, I asked permission the first time.” Actually, Jillene Manus was thrilled that Warren was socializing with an MD in Corporate Finance. Warren had been rotating through the various trading desks and finance departments. Malloran’s work was mostly on international plant and equipment investments by major corporations, and there was usually little contact between the disparate parts of the firm. Warren had seen Malloran heading out with his racquet one day and told him he should try one of the new lightweight aluminum models. That led to an invitation, which had become a regular game.

“Well, I wish Jillene’d retire already. That woman is forty miles of very bad road.” They’d emerged from the hallway and entered the locker room. The racquet club locker room was cavernous, and Frank’s stall was at the far end. He was stripping as he walked. “Anyway, she can wait. You’re having luncheon with me here at my club, and we will discuss many matters of grave import and tremendous value to you and to Weldon in building your career.” Frank was walking in his jock and sneakers now and tossed everything else into a bin at the end of the last bank of wooden lockers. “Throw your crap in there. Jimmy’ll have it laundered and ready when we leave.”

“What? You’re kidding me, right?”

“Of course I’m kidding you. He’ll have it in a plastic bag, so it can mildew under your desk. But it sounds good. Laundry takes about three months around here. Let’s hose down and then eat something. God, why do I always pick guys who are so good at racquet sports?” Frank stepped out of his sneakers and into the shower room.

The dining room, on the second floor of the enormous Italian Renaissance building, was more like a library, and Warren ordered the crabmeat salad. He was pleased to be eating with Malloran. A jock was always in demand on Wall Street, it seemed. Frank was known as a straightforward and decent guy, who kept a good sense of humor about his work and had, according to his reputation, absorbed the occasional screwing rather than resort to backstabbing or office politics.

“When I first interviewed at the firm, I was at Texas, on scholarship.” Frank was chewing on a roll as he talked. “Somebody had messed up, and the head of Corporate Finance back then thought I was on a tennis scholarship, not swimming, and invited me to his tennis club—here—for a match. I was a complete spastic with a racquet, and the game they play here isn’t normal tennis, it’s ‘court tennis.’ About ten people in the world have ever played this fucking game, but he figures, ’UCLA, tennis scholarship, no problem.’ Makes a big bet. I think we lost every point. I tell him the screwup, and the next thing I know, he’s got four guys in the pool, doing sprints. Competitive guy. He winds up even on his bets, I move into his department, and now I drag you here so I can get a workout and keep my girlish figure.” The waiter had deposited Warren’s crabmeat salad on the table along with Frank’s sandwich.

“Anyway, how’s it going so far?” Malloran took a huge bite of his tuna-salad sandwich.

“Pretty good. The training program’s kind of a joke, but I’m meeting a lot of people—or I should say some people and some other species I’m not so sure of.” Warren’s crabmeat was sweet and fresh. He squeezed some lemon on it.

“Those’d be the assholes. They’ve been multiplying lately. They breed like flies on horseshit, and it’s hard to keep up with them.” Warren liked the way Frank talked while he chewed—he was obviously a guy who knew how to enjoy himself.

“I guess. I like a few of the salesmen I’ve met, and one or two traders, but I’ve gotta say that the mortgage traders are tough to take by and large.” Warren was comfortable talking to Frank, who had shared a number of scathing observations about people at the firm with Warren before. If Frank was willing to share his low opinions of senior management, Warren figured he could talk straight to him too.

“That’s for sure. The biggest mystery is that Frank Tonelli. He should be tossing pizzas in Brooklyn.” Frank shook his head. “I don’t get how he runs the desk. Listen, once you get placed in a job, we’ll go on from there.”

Warren was silent for a minute, imagining Frank Tonelli, the head of Mortgage Trading, in a T-shirt stretching pizza dough. It wasn’t hard. “You know, that visual works. Anyway, to be honest, I’m not so sure I want to take the job on the trading desk. I’m thinking about sales.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. You’d be a good salesman. The traders are a crazy bunch anyway. Just don’t piss off Dressler. Ask his permission.” Malloran was almost finished with his sandwich. “Conover’s okay for a head of sales. As long as no one is after his job, he can be a decent guy. But Dressler is the real power. And you’re still a kid, for Christ sakes.”

“You know, this is pretty good of you. There aren’t too many MDs who would do this for a rookie.” Warren meant it.

“I accept your gratitude, worthless one. You can pay me back by telling me if that girlfriend of yours has a sister.” Warren had heard Frank’s wife had left him for the former head of Project Finance, a guy who later made a disastrous call on the financing of a Brazilian paper factory, cost the company $30 million and some clients much more, and had been sent to Tokyo “to enhance the Far Eastern franchise.”

“As a matter of fact, Larisa does have a sister. Supposedly, she’s better looking, and two years older. About twenty-eight, I think.”

“No kidding?” Frank stopped eating.

“Absolutely no kidding at all. She’s been living in Cape Town working with some anti-apartheid group, but she’s coming back to town for good in a couple of weeks. Actually, I think she was a runway model in Milan before she got a conscience. I’m not kidding. Want a date?” Warren didn’t know why the thought hadn’t occurred to him before. Frank was single, successful, smart, good-looking, and a likable guy. No wonder he’d always had a hard time finding a suitable mate in New York, where obnoxious traders, real estate developers, and club kids seemed to get all the girls. Karen would be perfect. She was tall, smart, and, according to her sister, not a total emotional mess. From the pictures Larisa had around her apartment, Karen was absolutely gorgeous. “She’s a little into the whole third-world thing, but the right man could probably convince her someone as evil as Henry Kissinger should be secretary of state. Oh, wait, he was!”

“Well, then I’ll owe you the big one.”

“What’s that?”

“The ultimate advice. The only thing you have to remember absolutely.” Frank jabbed his fork in the air.

“You’ve got my attention.”

“Anson Combes. Head of Mortgage Finance. He may seem harmless to you now, sitting over in his office. You probably don’t have a clue what he’s doing over there. I’m telling you, that guy is the fucking doomsday machine. Neutron bomb. Manson. Speck. Bundy. Right now, he’s plotting to kill the pope, Golda Meir, Reagan, Mother Teresa, and probably ate his parents alive as a toddler. I’m not kidding around. Psycho killer. Bodies in his crawl spaces. Satan. Beelzebub. You want to live, you keep a million miles away from that guy. Got it?” Frank pointed with his fork again. “Am I clear?”

“Jeez. Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Case closed. One other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re going to hear a lot about ’your word is your bond’ and ethics for a while. They play that up big-time. But it’s just for show. And they mean exactly that—
your
word is
your
bond.
They
can say and do whatever the fuck they want. Trust no one, and believe only what makes sense from the worst possible angle.”

“You trying to disillusion me before I even get started, or what?”

“Come see me in five years. You’ll kiss the ring, I promise you.” Frank leaned back and stretched.

“Somehow, I believe you are right.”

“Bet your rookie ass.”

ten

After spending fourteen weeks in a rotation period—two weeks in each of seven departments, learning about their businesses—Warren had been offered the promised job on the mortgage-trading desk by Carl Dressler. Warren was torn. Salesmen generally seemed to be under less pressure than traders, and with a few exceptions they also seemed less frantic, and there seemed to be fewer truly intelligent salesmen compared to the preponderance of whiz kids on the trading desks. Larisa agreed with him. One of her sister’s college friends was married to a trader who had an ulcer and an irregular heartbeat at thirty-five.

Weldon had a tradition of white-shoe salesmen—well-dressed, nice-looking men who were holdovers from a more congenial time, when the markets moved slower and salesmen relied on long friendships developed with portfolio managers at major investing institutions such as pension funds and insurance companies. Some of the heavy hitters, such as Bill Dougherty and Dan McAloon, were assigned young protégés to do their computer work and back them up when they were out golfing at Piping Rock or having lunch. Warren recognized that these men were sowing the seeds of their own destruction—allowing young, aggressive sharks to infest their territories, learn their trade, and eventually replace them. The massive paychecks these men earned were out of scale to what they actually did. But, unlike most of the traders, they mostly enjoyed their work.

Warren always smiled and sympathized with the traders’ complaints, while marveling that anyone working there could be so unhappy with a job that any of two or three hundred thousand intelligent, well-educated applicants would literally give up their lives for.

Malcolm Conover, the managing director in charge of sales, had offered Warren a spot on the New York institutional bond sales desk, considered a plum assignment. Several of the senior salesmen had taken a shine to Warren and liked his pleasant, unthreatening manner. Unsure of which offer to accept, Warren had asked Carl Dressler to allow him to have some extra time on the trading desk, to see how he felt about it. He’d always had success when it depended on his getting people to like him, and after a few weeks of watching the stress traders operated under, he wasn’t sure it was for him. He had also noticed that Weldon had virtually no traders over thirty-one or thirty-two, while many salesmen were in their forties.

“Burnout. It’s like a dog’s age. Seven years for every one.” Alex Stevenson, one of the senior traders on the mortgage desk, at twenty-nine, explained. He had a hawklike face, with hollowed-out cheeks and curly hair around a severely receding hairline. It was the head of a much thinner man grafted onto a round body, his stomach rolling over his belt. His thick arms and neck showed he spent time in the gym, but years of sitting all day had taken their toll. He didn’t hesitate to tell Warren that he was earning $1.3 million a year but felt grossly underpaid, and he complained constantly. “This job sucks. You come in every day, and Carl’s standing there asking how much money you made. You’ve got clients on one side trying to pick you off if you make a mistake, and the rest of the Street trying very hard to fit their foot up your ass. Somehow, you’re supposed to always be right, because when you’re wrong, you lose money. Now, salesmen, though, they’ve got a great deal! Whatever they buy or sell, it doesn’t matter how the firm does, as long as they get their commission. Hey, most of the time we pay a salesman more to get us out of a bad position than for selling a winner. I’m a piece of shit for losing dough on the bonds, and they’re a hero for selling them to someone. Then, when you actually have a great year, management fucks you on payday anyway.”