Straight to Hell

by John LeFevre

  Today, it’s absolutely jam-packed. We sit down; Mitch immediately orders a dozen oysters to share and a US$200 bottle of wine. That’s when I spot Bob Morse, the CEO of Citigroup Asia, and Wisal Lari, at the entrance by the hostess stand. She sits them at the only remaining free table, right next to us. This isn’t like the Four Seasons or the Regency dining rooms in New York; we’re at these small, parallel, two-top tables that create a buffer between the more casual bar and the formal restaurant, where the seating is more spacious and private. Morse and Lari are so close that they might as well be joining us for lunch.

  Bob Morse is a really nice guy, although I don’t know him that well. Lari isn’t my boss, but he thinks he is. He’s a slippery used car salesman type who still feels the need to work the phrase “American Express Centurion Concierge” into almost every story he tells. Except for his inner circle of sycophants, people hate him.

  He’s predictably arrogant. Once, while we were waiting in the conference room for a client to show up, he sat there thumbing through a Ferrari brochure. He didn’t even bother putting it away during introductions. Slightly bemused, the client asked him if he was in the market for a new car. Lari deadpanned, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  I actually ran into him on the street one time. I pulled up next to him; I was in a taxi and he was in his Ferrari F430. I assumed he must have just taken delivery of it because it still had the plastic wrapping around the passenger seat.

  I rolled down my window and got his attention. “Hey, Lari. Nice ride. I thought there was a credit crunch?”

  He gave me this shit-eating grin that with his overbite made him look like a rat. “Not here there isn’t.” And then when the light changed, he sped off.

  I later found out that he kept the plastic cover on the passenger seat for months, just so people would know that he received one of the first ones brand new, as opposed to having to pay above retail for a barely used model from someone who had been on the wait list and flipped it for a quick buck.

  I also had another colorful encounter with him at the fixed- income Christmas party. A few of us from the trading floor were standing around making small talk with a couple of Lari’s rather attractive subordinates. As soon as they walked away, Lari started telling a joke where the punch line was about how many mangos one of them could fit in her pussy. I was offended, but only because it was a shitty joke.

  Back to lunch—as we are exchanging pleasantries, a waiter and waitress return to our table; she places a beautifully ornate tray of oysters in the middle, and he starts the process of ceremoniously presenting our bottle of wine.

  Looking at this random display of decadence, Lari and Morse just give us this confused “what the fuck” look. It might be acceptable if there had been a client with us, or if it wasn’t 12:15 p.m. on a Wednesday. It’s clear that in their eyes, this is highly inappropriate, or, as Lari is probably thinking, “a bit homosexual.”

  Now, we have two options in terms of how to address this: we can get embarrassed and defensive, or we can embrace it.

  I simply look over at Morse and say, “Don’t worry, we’re just getting warmed up.”

  I learned this lesson of not displaying weakness a long time ago in London. It was a nice summer day in Canary Wharf and I was having a leisurely alfresco lunch with a colleague of mine. It just so happened that we were enjoying a few beers. All of a sudden, Mark Watson, the head of fixed income, appeared from nowhere, looming over us. He stood there, in silence, and just shook his head like a disappointed father. As if that wasn’t bad enough, our waitress appeared at exactly the same time. “Okay, gentlemen, one tiramisu, two spoons.” I froze, turned bright red, and just sat there unable to speak. Sharing a dessert is pretty hard to live down on a trading floor.

  As I get more and more comfortable in Asia, a small group of us start some of our own lunchtime rituals. Most of us single expats with generous housing allowances live in the Mid-Levels, so we’ll often order food and have it sent to one of our apartments. We’ll watch a movie or play video games, eat pizza, and drink a few beers. I’ve got my BlackBerry, Bloomberg Anywhere, and, in a pinch, can be back in the office in five minutes. We gradually begin to use these lunchtime sessions to participate in another prevalent investment banking hobby: doing cocaine.

  There’s nothing worse than doing coke while being anxious, uncomfortable, or rushed. Not that I have a problem with bathroom stalls or taxicabs, but it’s a lot more fun and social when you’re sitting on a couch, passing around a plate, and enjoying the process.

  We meet downstairs in the lunchtime taxi line that we share with Merrill Lynch, Goldman Sachs, Barclays, and Deutsche Bank. People just see three or four bankers jumping into a cab and assume we’re off to a client meeting. Who knows what they’re up to? Five minutes later, we’re at my place, watching Chappelle’s Show, eating our Tokio Joe’s, and passing around a plate. It also makes more sense to be at home because, too often, the coke gets cut up with baby laxative.

  Two hours later, we head back down Garden Road to Central, fully charged for the afternoon. We use a strictly enforced buddy system for the remainder of the day—checking and reminding each other to look out for bloody noses.

  Girlfriends and health kicks would occasionally push these sessions into hiatus, but the ability to spend a couple of hours relaxing at home midday never gets old.

  When I later move into the Four Seasons, give up the drugs, and institute one of my many healthy “new leaf” initiatives, going home for lunch becomes even more enjoyable. I’ll pick up some sushi takeout from City Super, change into my swim trunks, and lounge by the rooftop infinity pool, complete with an expansive view over all of Victoria Harbor. I swim laps, eat my sushi, take a nap, and get some sun. After an hour or so of that, I head back down to my room, rub one out, shower, put on fresh socks, clean boxers, and a crisp shirt—then head back to work feeling totally refreshed. It’s like a minivacation.

  As I get to know more and more people in the region, we form a monthly Friday lunch group at Ruth’s Chris Steak House. The group includes an assortment of colleagues, competitors, and clients. Occasionally, we include a few nonfinance guys, but it’s too annoying to watch them break down and split a check. “You had the tomahawk. You had the lobster. You had the filet with a crab cake. I just had the sirloin and no appetizer. And I didn’t have any of the wine, just two beers.” With the amount of money we spend there, we are treated like gods.

  It’s midmorning and I just got off the fourteen-hour red-eye from Los Angeles. I love these long flights, especially from L.A. It takes off just after midnight, which means I have ample time to have a nice dinner and plenty of drinks before making my way to the airport. I’ve got time to hit the Cathay lounge for a few more drinks before boarding my flight. I’ll wait until we’re allowed to recline our beds, pop a Xanax, put on a movie, and drink until I fall asleep. Six hours later, I wake up, rehydrate, and order some food. Then I can start drinking again, pick up where I left off on Denzel’s Man on Fire, and fall back asleep. The flight is sufficiently long enough that I can get drunk, pass out, get drunk again, pass out again, and then still wake up feeling pretty good, just in time for landing.

  I don’t need to be a hero today and bother turning up at the office. It’s the summer lull; the market is not only dead quiet, it’s dead. People have effectively shut up shop until September.

  I decide to spend the day detoxing by the pool at the Shangri-La. At some point in the early afternoon, my phone buzzes; it’s Mitch. “Hey, boy-o. I thought you’d be back. Listen, I’ve been jammed all day. [Bankers are still busy when credit markets are dislocated.] I need some lunch. Meet me at Ruth’s Chris in twenty minutes.” Click.

  I roll over and go back to sleep. Forty-five minutes later, he calls back. “Where the fuck are you?” He’s tenacious to the point of being unstoppable.

  “Sorry, man, I would if I could, but I’m at the pool, a
nd I’m too lazy to go home and change.”

  He won’t take no for an answer. “Listen, mate, I’m here by myself. Be a friend. Just come as you are. I’m buying. See you in ten.” Click.

  Reluctantly, I oblige. It’s only a short walk through the shopping mall below the hotel. My only real issue is that I am wearing white Havaiana flip-flops, olive-colored reflective Prada swim trunks, and a fluorescent orange Vodafone Formula 1 racing shirt. This, along with my Persols and a baseball cap, is my go-to Eurotrash uniform when I feel like going incognito. It stands out so much that no one recognizes me.

  Normally, I’d just stop in the mall and pick up some new clothes, but I figure, what the hell, why not flex some muscle at Ruth’s Chris?

  When I arrive, my swim trunks are still damp. I apologize to the general manager, the maître d’, and my favorite bartender for my attire. They actually think it’s pretty funny; it’s also only 5 p.m. so they’re pretty relaxed.

  I find Mitch fully suited, jacket on, sitting at a suspiciously large table by himself, thumbing away on his BlackBerry. He’s impressed. “Holy fuck. You weren’t joking about not being dressed. Don’t worry about it. But I wasn’t sure that you were coming, so I’ve invited a few friends.”

  He’s drinking whiskey, but I order a bottle of wine. A half hour later, we’re still getting caught up. I’m telling him about my extended vacation and he’s filling me in on some office politics; it’s a wholesome conversation. That’s when I see the maître d’ leading three women in our direction. And by women, I mean prostitutes. And by prostitutes, I mean Indonesian girls from the bowels of Wan Chai—complete with Lucite heels, miniskirts, and halter tops.

  The girls quickly polish off my bottle of wine, and Mitch, always the gracious host, reaches for the wine list. Seeing what he orders is always a great barometer of how drunk he is—HK$2,000, or $260 a bottle. That’s not totally insane, but for three hookers, it’s downright criminal.

  I remind myself that he’s paying but still guard the bottle as best I can. After an eternity of small talk, and three bottles later, we order food. It’s now pushing 7 p.m., which means the dining room is slowly filling up for dinner.

  Having spent all day detoxing at the pool, I have to make frequent trips to the bathroom. I don’t know what people find more shocking: our companions, my attire, or my offensively small bladder. On one of my many trips, I notice that a group of Credit Suisse bankers I know reasonably well is gathering in one of the glass-walled private rooms. Fortunately, they don’t see me.

  Finally, our food arrives—on Ruth’s Chris’s world-famous piping-hot plates. With each plate, the waiter reminds us, “Please do not touch. Very, very hot.” We get this every time we come here.

  Today, this gives Mitch an idea. “Okay, ladies, you’re going to play a game. We’re going to have a contest to see which one of you can hold your finger on the plate the longest.” He’s not kidding. After a minute or so of explaining and coaxing, he says, “Hurry up. We’re running out of time. Okay, ready, set, go.”

  It doesn’t take much more than a single second before every person in the main dining room is treated to a chorus of “Ooooh. Aaahh. Eeeeeh,” courtesy of the three hookers.

  “That was pathetic. Let’s go again.”

  The combination of the plates having cooled slightly and the nociceptors in their fingers shutting down makes round two slightly better. The winner almost makes it to three seconds before three more rapid-fire, piercing howls.

  “Ooooh. Aaahh. Eeeeeh.”

  I can’t take it; I excuse myself to the restroom.

  “I’ll join you.” Mitch jumps up and pulls me into a tight embrace as we walk toward the bar. “What’s wrong, mate? You seem off.”

  “Mitch, fuck you. Look who we’re with. Look how I’m dressed. I mean Jesus Christ, Credit Suisse is having a client event right fucking there.” I shouldn’t have said that. Without hesitation, he releases me from his hold and pushes his way into the private room and yells, “What’s up, Credit Suisse faggots.” And then he runs out, giggling, into the bathroom.

  That’s when I pull a runner, right out the front door. I’ve had enough. Besides, I’m not risking Mitch sticking me with this fucking bill. That’s the last time I dare to show my face at Ruth’s Chris.

  The

  Warren Buffett

  of Shanghai

  “Lights.” That’s what we say on the trading floor when our phone rings. And by phone, I mean dealerboard—a large electronic panel with communal and direct phone lines, a squawk box (the hoot), and a small TV screen. If I need to pick up a trader, syndicate, sales, or research line, or even broadcast myself to the entire trading floors of Hong Kong, Singapore, Tokyo, London, and New York, it’s all right in front of me. There are so many phones ringing at all times on a trading floor that we generally have the ringer volumes set at barely audible levels. For the uninitiated, it can be easy to miss a call unless you are paying attention. I have my dealerboard programmed so that the lines that I care about will flash in green and the lines that I don’t care about will flash in red, hence the term “lights.”

  Chapter One of Trading Floor 101 for interns and analysts details how to answer the phones and operate the dealerboard. I have seen trainees reduced to actual tears for not answering the phone fast enough, accidentally dropping a line, or listening in on a call and forgetting to use the mute button. For a generation of kids who grew up without a home phone, basic telephone etiquette is increasingly an issue.

  “Are you fucking retarded? How the fuck can I trust you to sell a bond if you can’t even figure out how to answer the fucking phones?” I’ve said it many times. I’ve heard it many times. It’s been said to me once.

  The drawback of dealerboards at this time was they didn’t have caller ID, so it was impossible for me to screen my calls.

  “Hey, we’ve got a situation.” It’s Benny Lo, the head of the China coverage team, calling. “I’m hearing that is about to announce a deal away from us, mmm’kay? It’s likely Morgan Stanley as sole bookrunner on the deal.”

  Missing a deal is not a very pleasant experience. You have to explain it to your boss and sometimes to his boss. And when you’re sitting in Hong Kong, you also have to explain it to the product (emerging markets credit) boss in New York. The only thing worse than missing a deal is missing a deal and having your boss see it hit the tape before you do. One of your clients is doing a deal and you don’t even fucking know about it. Fortunately, I am responsible for structuring, pricing, and selling the deals, so I don’t have to worry too much about being accountable for the direct relationship. By that I mean I still get yelled at, but at least I won’t get fired over it. That’s on the coverage banker’s head.

  It’s hard to imagine a scenario much worse than this. Morgan Stanley, one of our main rivals, is about to announce a sole-bookrunner deal for the first-ever high-yield corporate bond to come out of China.

  “We need to get in this fucking deal,” Benny whines. No shit, Einstein. He is one of the most annoying and notoriously pedantic bankers I’ve ever worked with, but in fairness, this is a bona fide fire drill. “I’m arranging a call with the chairman for this afternoon, and I’m going to need you to be on it. It seems that Morgan Stanley has been telling them they can get a deal done at 10% and is charging them two points in fees.” (That means if the company raises $300 million, they keep $294 million as proceeds and the bankers get $6 million in fees.) For most of us, you need only a few of these deals under your belt each year to guarantee a decent six- or seven-figure bonus, depending on your rank.

  Our strategy is fairly simple: lie through our fucking teeth. So with the help of our translator, I hop on to a conference call with Benny and Chairman Zhu, one of the richest men in China. Despite growing up in the shadow of the Cultural Revolution, without electricity or running water, Zhu has put together a conglomerate that spans real estate, phar
maceuticals, and commodities. To call him eccentric would be an understatement; he famously likes to remind people that he didn’t own a pair of shoes until he was sixteen years old.

  How I articulate myself is largely irrelevant because so much of whatever I say is lost in translation. So I go for melodic tones and short bursts that exude a sense of confidence and conviction. A few overpromises and outright lies also help. “Put us in this deal and, as the number one bond house in the world, we’ll get you a better deal at a better price and at a lower fee.” Despite having done zero credit analysis, I explain to him that we can get him a deal done at 9.5%, 50 basis points lower than what Morgan Stanley had told him. How is that possible? I tell him that we know more investors and have more leverage with them because we do more deals than any other bank. We also have a better read on the market because our trading desk is more aggressive and therefore sees more flow. It’s impossible to quantify any of these points, so it’s more of a confident assumption than an outright lie.

  My only real concern is that everything I tell him will be further buoyed and exaggerated by our enthusiastic coverage bankers in translation. It’s literally a game of high-stakes Chinese Whispers.

  I feign surprise that Morgan Stanley is planning on charging him 2% in fees. What an outrage. For the privilege of helping deliver the first-ever high-yield corporate bond out of China, we’d happily do the deal for 1.5%. Chinese people are particularly sensitive to the thought of someone trying to rip them off.

  It’s also a good time to remind them that we are, and have been, active in lending to them. Part of providing low-margin services (loans) to clients implies that they reward us with higher-margin business. How do you say Glass-Steagall in Chinese?