Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (7 page)

After class, Warren met Larisa for lunch. It was a warm day, and they sat on the steps of Uris Hall. She had brought a sandwich with her, and Warren grabbed a cup of clam chowder from the student snack bar across the green.

“Fisher’s class this morning was really good,” he said, slurping a little.

“Wait. What? Who are you? You
actually enjoyed
a class? Where is my boyfriend, and what have you done with him?” Her upper lip curled under when she smiled, and Warren couldn’t resist bending over and giving her a kiss.

“Umm. Onions in the tuna. Yummy!… Yeah, he was talking about mortgage-backed securities trading at the Wall Street firms, and it sounds like something I might really like. I didn’t know that kind of thing even existed.” He was serious, his eyebrows even a little furrowed.

“Yeah, we learned about that in my capital-markets class last month. Sounds really complicated.” She had finished half her sandwich and took a big chug on a can of Coke.

“That’s what I like … complicated! So much of the stuff we’ve learned about seems so dull. None of this finance math or statistics seems particularly hard. Hell, most of it is just division and multiplication.” He had finished the soup. “Plus, commodities trading was pretty much just guessing where the market was going to go, or wasting time with charts and stuff. It seems like trading mortgages would actually require using your brains and getting paid for it.”

“And you have such a cute brain. So big, and so fast, and so modest.” Larisa poked him in the ribs.

“Hey, Fisher said you can make a million a year in a job like that. And that you can get to that kind of level fast. I wouldn’t mind that kind of pay.” He remembered Ned Johnstone had said the same thing.

“I wouldn’t mind that kind of money myself,” Alicia said, “but I had no idea you were such a greedy little devil.”

“I didn’t know you were such a greedy little devil.”

“Neither did I, really. I mean, when we would go visit my dad’s clients, the way some of them lived was mind-boggling. I gotta admit, maybe I even resented it. My dad worked so hard, and we couldn’t dream of ever living like that. But maybe I could actually succeed at this. Whatever the hell ‘this’ really is!”

“Well, from what I’ve seen, you usually figure out a way to get what you want. After all…” She spread her arms wide and glanced down at herself.

“Ummm, I seem to recall
you
jumping me.” Warren moved in for a hug.

“Cutie, I
always
get what I want!” Larisa squeezed him hard in her arms. “You never had a chance.”

*   *   *

In early spring, dozens of firms scheduled on-campus recruiting meetings for jobs that started in August 1984. In addition to the general meetings, most included a formal interview schedule. Warren spent a lot of time talking with Claire Tompkins in the Career Counseling Office, and the two of them had decided that investment banking, on the sales and trading side, was for him. He was outgoing, smart, and personable and had some experience with the markets. She was confident that he would get a place at one of the top firms.

“Listen, if you get shut out of the bulge-bracket firms, it’s not like the second tier don’t pay as well—some pay more. Just go for the best first.” She’d recommended Weldon and Goldman as the two best places to work from the reports of graduates. First Boston was in the middle, powerful but somewhat disorganized. A classmate told a story about interviewing with Goldman that gave Warren some doubts. The guy had been set up by his uncle, a powerful banker at Lazard Frères, to meet with Robert Rubin, the head of equities. Rubin had kept the kid waiting over four hours in his office, only to then blow him off. “I got sick of looking at that picture of him and Jimmy Carter, and he never even so much as apologized after having told his secretary at least five times he’d be down in five minutes!” Goldman sounded like a place that didn’t treat junior people well.

Warren got hold of annual reports and went into the library to check periodicals. He learned about Salomon’s economist Henry Kaufman, called Dr. Doom, whose interest-rate forecasts moved the markets, and John Gutfreund, the round, cigar-chomping head of the firm, who made billion-dollar bets in the bond markets without blinking an eye. Weldon was famous for its mortgage department, the only one able to compete with First Boston’s, run by Larry Fink, and Salomon’s, headed up by Lew Ranieri and Mike Mortara. Warren tried to memorize the names, and to get a sense of the culture of each firm. Goldman pushed itself as an ethical company, which seemed oxymoronic to the nature of the business, but intriguing despite the stories he’d heard from Austin Karr in Florida. He agreed with Claire’s hierarchy and decided to make Weldon his first priority and First Boston number two. Though he doubted he had a shot with Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley because of his college grades, he signed up to meet with them during their on-campus interviews.

Austin Karr, who had kept in touch since Florida, sent Warren’s résumé to a friend at Weldon, and they had given him an appointment for a full day of interviews at their offices, which allowed him to avoid the on-campus interviews altogether. He’d also talked to Ned Johnstone about Merrill, but Warren had decided afterward that the firm was too huge a bureaucracy for him.

Generally, he felt the prospects were fairly promising. After all, the Street was starting to do well again after a long lull. The stock markets had picked up a little steam, and interest rates had been volatile, making trading houses profitable. Salomon had made record profits two years in a row. There’d be plenty of jobs—he hoped. Warren’s grades were excellent—he made dean’s list, and only Serena Marchand had a higher GPA among the top students interested in a trading career.

Larisa had been very much in favor of the career choice. She had met some of the people at the investment banks on campus, even though she wouldn’t graduate until a full semester after Warren, and was extremely impressed at the amount of money they made. It wasn’t unusual, she learned, for a new hire to be making a mid-six-figure income after only two or three years. That sounded great to Warren—his savings would pay his rent for the year cover his final tuition, and carry him maybe another couple months, but things were beginning to feel a little tight. He just hoped he’d make it through the first round of interviews and get at least a couple callbacks. He felt that Ned had given him some great advice. It was almost impossible to get a job at one of these prestigious firms without an MBA. Though he had never imagined himself capable of working in a regular nine-to-five, or in this case maybe seven-to-seven, job, the prospect of making as much money as people who had spent a decade at a law firm or building a medical career made it seem like a great investment.

Warren checked his closet. He had an Italian suit that was inappropriate, but the conservative, charcoal, nailhead-wool, single-breasted Brooks Brothers suit his mom had bought him as a college-graduation present was perfect. He made a special trip to Saks for a new white Oxford shirt, and Larisa surprised him with an Hermès tie. The blue and red silk set off the gray flannel, and it had cost more than his shoes, which hadn’t been cheap.

On the morning of his first interview, he suited up and checked himself in the mirror. A clear-eyed, young Wall Street moneyman stared back. He had even shaved off his usual stubble. Larisa gave him some final advice. “Warren, you don’t always have to say exactly what you think all the time. If someone gets you mad, or you think someone is an idiot, just keep it to yourself. Turn on the filter! Maybe even count to five or something.” She was right. Trading barbs with Corelli or pointing out a mistake by his stats TA might be fun, but sometimes it was better to just shut up.

The tense bubble in his gut wouldn’t go away, but he figured there really was nothing to be too nervous about. Almost nobody got a job at Weldon, so he might as well try to relax and learn from it. He stuck a few résumés in his pocket, just in case someone hadn’t read it, and headed out, prepared, as best he could, to do battle.

six

When he got out of the subway at the Bowling Green station, Warren was relieved. To people who had grown up outside New York, the subway system was a daunting, frightening underground inferno. Warren had never gotten used to it even though he had spent months living in the city with his mom almost every year. Once back on the street, he found his way up to Old Slip, and the offices of Weldon Brothers. He felt reasonably assured he knew what to expect—the placement office at school had taken everyone through practice interviews, and he had handled himself well. He had done his research and knew the names of most of the department heads and important people, such as Pete Giambi, the highly regarded, young fixed-income research head who specialized in mortgage-backed securities.

Weldon Brothers was acknowledged as one of the premier investment banks in the world. It had been founded by two brothers early in the twentieth century to compete with the firms started by Marcus Goldman and Samuel Sachs, Orthodox Jews who had begun a company that financed trade receivables, and the Lehmans and Schiffs, aristocratic German Jews who were raising money for shipping companies. The Weldons, two distinguished-looking young men whose father owned a regional railroad in the South and virtually controlled the import of coffee beans into the Northeast, had seen a need for a Protestant trading house. Founded on such inegalitarian motives, the firm, by the time Warren came to interview, employed forty-two hundred people in seven countries, had assets of almost $47 billion, and generated a pretax profit of approximately $400 million a year, after paying the average midlevel professional compensation of some $400,000 annually, most of that in year-end bonuses. It occupied a solid niche in what was called the “bulge bracket,” the top six firms used by blue-chip clients to raise money in the stock and bond markets. First Boston, Salomon Brothers, Goldman, Morgan Stanley, and Merrill Lynch were its main competitors. Warren had investigated each company and felt Weldon best suited him, with its strong mortgage-backed-securities department, and its aggressive trading image.

*   *   *

One Old Slip, just above the Salomon Brothers building on the East River waterfront, was a massive tower that commanded a sweeping view of the harbor and the monuments to money that had been erected in lower Manhattan since the nation was young. Warren crossed the windswept plaza and pushed through a set of revolving doors into a cavernous, granite-clad lobby with an immense and powerful Frank Stella painting suspended on the far wall.

The security guard in the lobby called upstairs, and Warren was given a pass to the nineteenth floor. When he got off the elevator, a sleek reception hall with burnished wood trim and the firm’s logo in large brass letters greeted him. The woman at the console took his name and asked him to take a seat.

After a few minutes, a short, heavyset young man in a billowing white shirt and red tie emerged from the glass doors and headed toward him. “Warren?” The man’s hand was extended.

“Yes. Are you Rich?” Warren stood up and gave a firm shake.

“Yup. Rich Symanski. You’re right on time.” Rich’s attitude seemed congenial enough.

“Thanks. It was an easy trip.” Warren noticed Rich had a sheaf of papers in his hand. Symanski caught him looking.

“This is a couple copies of your résumé and your interview schedule. Hope you’re ready for a long day.” They were making their way along the perimeter of the trading floor, a cavernous, double-height room that contained about three hundred modular trading desks with no partitions or walls, just stacks of video monitors and computer screens. The open floor was a nest of activity, with dozens of young men in white shirts and ties holding phones to their ears, some yelling out numbers, others pointing to the small trading screens. A few women were scattered around. The tall windows were tinted dark against the bright daylight, and the fluorescent lighting gave the scene a greenish cast. To their left, a line of offices, each with a glass wall, fronted on the floor. Absolutely no place in the entire room had any real privacy.

“Here’s your schedule. We’re starting you off with the toughest part first. You survive that, you move on. You’ll finish with Jillene Manus, head of HR. Hey, I’m the oldest Weldon trainee ever. I’m famous.” Symanski handed Warren a typed sheet as they walked.

“What do you do now?” Warren took the sheet and scanned it, noticing Symanski’s name was not on it, and wondering why he would be proud of coming so late to the game.

“Oh, I’m just starting on the convertible desk. Not cars. Bonds. Convertible bonds.” Rich giggled to himself a bit.

“Well, I suppose they’re not so great for those rainy days.” Warren figured a little humor might ease his tension. He knew what convertible bonds were; Fisher had covered them a few weeks before. And bonds were supposedly safe investments, literally good for the proverbial rainy day.

“Hey, hotshot, think you were the first to come up with that one?” In fact, Symanski had never heard that play on words before, and Warren could tell by his tone.

“Nah. Just learning as I go,” Warren said in a conciliatory tone, minding his girlfriend’s advice and holding back from adding a sarcastic
Aw, shucks
.

“You’re learning pretty fast, rookie. Now, here’s Bill Pike’s office. I’m going to do you a favor. Someone must have had it in for you to start you with him first. He’s the biggest prick in the place. Only one out of ten get past him. He’ll piss all over you. Just do your best not to let him get to you. After him, you’re on your own to find the guys on the rest of the schedule. I might be tied up.” Rich knocked on the door and cracked it. He leaned his head in and spoke briefly, then ushered Warren in past him. “Warren, this is Bill Pike. He’s in charge of fixed income—that’s bonds. Bill, you’ve got Warren’s résumé on your stack there. He’s from—”

“Jesus Christ, Symanski, that’s enough. Get your fat, fucking lard ass out of my office already and go make some money, will ya? What are ya, a goddamn secretary or something?” Symanski started to object, but Pike cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just leave me and Wonderboy here alone. Go take dictation or something.” Pike picked up a golf putter that was leaning against his desk. Symanski grinned, tittered, and ducked out. “Fucking fruitcake, wouldn’t know a bond if it tried to blow him in the bathroom,” Pike muttered under his breath, then looked up at Warren with an appraising glare. “So, you wanna work for Weldon, eh?”