Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street

by Offit, Mike

  “Oh, God. That’s horrible.” Warren winced at what this must have done to her and her parents.

  “Yeah, well, my dad, who never accepts any blame for anything, dumped the whole thing on me. Said I should have never said he had no ambition and was stupid. Forget that he called Jamie a loser. Anyway, that was it for my parents. They both blamed each other and also blamed me. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. We’re civil to each other now, but if I could’ve gone anywhere else for school, I would have. Free tuition is a big deal.”

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say.” Warren was a little flustered. “I guess I should have asked before. I mean, how could I not know something so important about the woman I love?” He took her hand. “I’m … I’m…”

  “Sorry?” Larisa finished for him. “Don’t be. From then on I knew I was on my own. My brother is dead. My parents are both alone. I’m in New York, and nothing, nothing, will ever make me go back there. We talk like we’re close, but we’re not. Don’t be sorry. Don’t.… Hey, I’m lucky.”

  “Lucky?” He was confused.

  Larisa reached across the table and took his hand again. “Yes, I’m lucky. I found you.”

  Warren wasn’t sure, but at that moment he thought he could feel his heart breaking.

  twelve

  The next six weeks passed quickly. Warren was officially assigned to the sales desk and sat in with each salesman in the group for a few days, listening, and occasionally even helping take an order or run some analytics. Warren was surprised when Malcolm Conover called him into his office for his year-end review, which he hadn’t expected for at least another week, and said his bonus was going to be $70,000. Warren flushed a little. It was huge, but someone like Dougherty could make that in a week.

  “Get used to making a lot of money, Warren. I think you’re going to do well. You’re promoted to AVP immediately, and you will start on your own accounts next week.”

  Warren couldn’t help but wonder if all his fellow associates who weren’t bombing out had been told the same thing.

  Malcolm immediately changed the subject from money to Warren’s new account list, and a change from salary and bonus to full commission. His initial account package included Glendale Federal and Warner Savings, two decent-size and active West Coast savings banks. Both had expressed a desire to be covered out of New York. Dutch Goering, a senior New York salesman, also covered a West Coast thrift, Golden State. In addition, Warren was assigned Monument Management, a medium-size mutual fund company, and Emerson Insurance, a smaller life insurance company in New York. But the best had been saved for last: he would also back up Bill Dougherty, the senior salesman, who covered a half dozen of the biggest accounts in New York, and two big state pension funds, Wisconsin and Ohio. Dougherty’s backup, a kid named Walther, had been caught passing stock tips from Corporate Finance to his friends. He claimed not to realize it was inside information, but once the New York attorney general had been informed by a client, that was it for Walther’s time at Weldon. Amazingly, he’d been hired at Drexel Burnham almost immediately.

  Warren knew being assigned to back up Dougherty was a huge opportunity. It almost cemented his future as a big hitter at Weldon. When Doughtery retired or left the firm, Warren would get the list. If he could build good relationships with the accounts, he might push Dougherty aside and get primary coverage on them even sooner. Warren knew some important business was to be done with the State of Wisconsin pension—they were looking at completely overhauling their investment strategy. If he could get to know their senior people, particularly Barbara Hayes, it would serve him well.

  Warren also liked Bill. Dougherty was pleasant, about six feet tall, with sandy hair that he slicked back, and ice-blue eyes, a patrician-looking fellow whose family had been figures in New York City politics and finance for several decades.

  Bill was not a detail-oriented salesman, but enjoyed solid relationships with his accounts. Warren had already tried to emulate some of his style, but with more substance. Every day after six, Warren went to the gym to work out, then spent several hours reading after dinner. He spent most nights with Larisa at his apartment, since her classes started much later than he had to leave—she would generally still be sleeping when he slipped out the door in the morning. When she didn’t come over after school, he occasionally went back to the office in the evenings, to study and to chat with Pete Giambi or other research people, trying to learn as much as he could about the markets.

  When his bonus check cleared, he sent his father $5,000, and his brother’s hospital $3,000 earmarked for the genetic research Danny was leading. Warren also sent along a note promising to stop in next time he was in Houston. He took the remaining thirty-odd thousand after taxes and bought treasury bills. Dull, but safe and liquid. Exactly what you would try to talk accounts out of buying—low margin for the firm.

  Warren developed a routine. First thing every morning, he would call each account, giving them a three-minute summary of what was going on in the markets, and mentioning the major “axes,” or positions, that the trading desks were pushing. He might also fax written-up trade ideas. If he got a positive response, he’d follow up with more information and calls.

  His first giant trade had been with Monument. He had convinced Nathan Leonard, the senior portfolio manager, that he should sell his GNMA 10.5 percent mortgage securities to buy GNMAs at 9.5 percent. Interest rates were dropping, and prepayments would likely accelerate, making the higher-coupon bonds less attractive. Nathan had agreed and sold $600 million of GNMA 10.5s and bought the same amount of 9.50s, at a price difference of two points. This had also fit the trading desk’s needs perfectly, as they were doing a structured security deal with the 10.5s. Leonard had done all the business with Warren. It was one of the biggest swaps anyone had ever done at Weldon. It made Warren a hero. He was assigned a $600,000 commission. Based on a 15 percent payout, he quickly calculated that this one trade would be worth some $90,000 in real money to him.

  After Warren had completed the trade, he sent a memo to Leonard, thanking him for the business. He told Leonard that the trade idea had actually been Giambi’s and suggested that Warren and Pete set up a lunch with him soon. Warren knew that, once a smart portfolio manager met Giambi, he’d do more of his business with Weldon, just to get Pete’s ideas. Portfolio managers on the “buy side”—Warren’s clients—were all judged on how their portfolios performed relative to an index of their peers. Good ideas that worked meant better pay and advancement for them.

  Warren sent copies of the memo to Giambi and the manager of Fixed Income. Later that day, Warren was surprised when Anson Combes stopped by his desk to chat. Warren noticed that the salesmen around him all stopped talking, eager to hear what was said. Combes was short, just under five-six, but looked like a prototypical banker, reasonably fit, with carefully cut, thick, whitish blond hair, piercing grey eyes, and thin lips behind which lurked even, pointy, white teeth. He wore rectangular, black-rimmed glasses that gave him an air of diligence rather than a nerdy look, and his face had softened around his sharp features to make him seem a bit jowly. His head always seemed to be pushing forward off his neck, a posture that imparted a sense of aggression and restless energy that women evidently found attractive.

  “Hey, Hament, nice trade with Monument.” Combes seemed to be passing by at random and paused to congratulate Warren almost as an afterthought.

  “Oh, thanks.” Warren couldn’t figure out how Combes even knew about the trade. He barely even knew Combes—they’d been in a couple of meetings together, and Warren made every effort not to call any attention to himself.

  “Yeah, Kris Jameson mentioned it to me. Showed me your memo.” Combes laughed nervously, and Warren noticed that Combes had a tic—he’d scratch his left ear whenever he laughed. This odd laugh was a sort of a hissing accompanied by a heaving of the chest. It made Warren uneasy.

  Kris Jameson was the head of Fixed Income, which included the entire Sales and Tradi
ng division, a heavy man who was rarely seen on the floor, and no one was certain what he actually did. He had an office on the executive officers’ level, a vast and impressively decorated room that he had completely redesigned. Rather than the floor-to-ceiling windows present throughout the rest of the building, Jameson’s office had been Sheetrocked and reconstructed with large, colonial, eight-over-eight windows. The walls had been lacquered a deep hunter green, a fireplace installed, and a portion of Jameson’s collection of eighteenth-century American furniture filled the space. A freezer was stocked with Häagen-Dazs rum-raisin ice cream, which Jameson consumed constantly, at least partially explaining his enormous girth. Jameson’s hobby was buying and renovating historic buildings, and his purchases kept several Madison Avenue antique dealers afloat. Warren couldn’t imagine that Jameson would have known or cared about Warren’s trade, or that he would have mentioned it to Combes.

  “Yeah, Pete did a nice job.” Warren started to try to look busy. Obviously Anson’s visit wasn’t happenstance.

  “Well, I can see you’re a first-class ass-kisser. Anyway, Jameson told me we should talk about your accounts—whether we can do more business there. I’ve kind of been covering Golden State and Warner myself the past year on the finance side. He said we should coordinate.” Combes’s smile had disappeared with an almost audible snap, and now he was leaning in over Warren’s desk.

  “Uh, sure, Anson, that’s a great idea. I didn’t know you’d been talking to them. Warner never mentioned it to me. Neither did Malcolm. Or Goering.” Warren could feel his bile rising. Combes was pushing his way into Warren’s account base already. It was bad etiquette for a finance officer to talk to an account without at least letting the salesman know. In fact, it was pretty much a rule not to.

  “Malcolm? Malcolm’s a fucking idiot. Malcolm probably doesn’t even remember your name, or mine for that matter. Haven’t you caught on that he’s not all there?” Anson had a look of incredulity, a kind of conspiratorial smirk at how dumb Malcolm Conover was.

  “Gee, Anson, I’ll have to look for that in the future. Thanks for the tip. Anyway, how can I help you with Warner?” Warren avoided the trap of agreeing that his boss was a moron.

  “Well, for starters, you could get Malcolm to assign you Golden State instead of Goering. He’s like his namesake—a crazy German who likes to blow things up. Anyway, right now, just keep on doing what you’re doing. But keep me informed about anything you hear from them. I’m working with Golden State on some more big stuff down the line, assuming they can stay healthy long enough, and I bet we can do business with Warner. See ya.” Anson turned and walked off. Warren put down his pen and shook his head. Anson fucking Combes was telling him what to do.

  “Man, what a piece of work, huh?” Kerry Bowen sat to Warren’s right, and had overheard the whole conversation. She was a smart and pleasant woman who had been at Weldon two years, moving up the ladder quickly in sales. She covered three of the biggest insurers in Hartford and New York and had done well. “He’s scary.”

  “You’re telling me? Jesus, I hope I don’t have to work with him. He terrifies me.” Warren liked Kerry and, despite his best instincts, trusted her.

  “Good luck. Just do me a favor and don’t mention my name to him. I like my job.” Kerry reached over and patted Warren on the arm.

  “What is it about him that sends the chills up my spine?” Warren remembered Frank Malloran’s advice about Combes.

  “The guy’s a real bastard. When I started, he’d just gotten divorced from his first wife. No kids. He started sleeping with the wife of an AVP who worked for him. He’d send the guy to New Mexico for a week, and literally bang his wife in his bed the whole time. So, she leaves her husband for Anson, but meanwhile he was also screwing Marisa in research. Anson had promised her they’d get married, but he dumps her and starts dating some twenty-two-year old Associate. About six months after that, he decided the department was overstaffed, so he fired seven people in late October, including the ex-husband. I’m amazed neither of them sued. Too embarrassed I guess. Nobody got any bonuses either. Just in one day with no warning, out that afternoon. Some good people too. Shall I go on?” She loved to gossip, and Warren had obviously tapped a rich vein.

  “He ever hit on you?”

  “Nah. I’m not his type. He likes ’em young and dumb and hot.”

  “That’s why I thought he’d go for you.” Warren smiled, and Kerry cuffed him on the head. “Wiseass. That’s the last time I cover for you when you’re in the can.”

  “Well, I guess the best thing to do is shuck and jive and try to steer clear.” Warren shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, I’m just the new kid. What do I need Darth Vader on my case for?”

  As with many conversations on the floor, this one ended abruptly when one of the direct wires to a client’s desk started flashing on Kerry’s turret. Warren sat idle for a moment. Something about the way Combes had so clearly announced his intention to be involved with Warner and Golden State was odd. It made Warren nervous. Why would Combes want Goering off of Golden State? It looked as if, despite the warning from Malloran, Warren was going to have to deal with Combes, after all. He dismissed his worries for now, since, he reasoned, there was nothing to be done, he was too new to the business to be thinking geopolitically, and most important, it was lunchtime, and he was still excited at the concept of the firm’s buying him lunch every day. He realized that it was simply to ensure that no one felt the need to wander too far from his or her phone, but a turkey and Swiss on soft rye with lettuce, tomato, and mayo seemed to be calling his name. Anson Combes would wait. Oh, and a good, sour pickle.

  thirteen

  The hours at work had reduced the amount of time Warren spent with Larisa, but she had been pretty busy with her last semester at school and had begun the interview rounds at the investment banks as well. Warren had not been shy about pushing her on Jillene—he believed Larisa would be an excellent Corporate Finance recruit. Jillene couldn’t disagree. Larisa’s grades were outstanding, and her desire and drive were obvious.

  Weldon had set a total of thirty-four new associate positions to be offered that year. There were well over six thousand applications. Warren knew that there was a bit of a quota system for each of the top schools, with women and minorities given a slight edge if they qualified. Jillene confided in him that four men and one other woman were in the final cut for the three positions Columbia would be allotted in the Finance associate derby. They were all good candidates, with diverse work experience and strong recommendations. It would be a close contest.

  The subject became an obsession in the evenings for Larisa. Weldon was the “hot” firm again because its Mergers and Acquisitions department had hired some key talent away from First Boston and gotten a lot of big advisory assignments. Their Reorganization Department, which specialized in assisting firms in financial duress restructure, had also been heating up, as sections of the economy faltered. Most business school graduates who were interested in Wall Street, which was most business school graduates, wanted a job at Weldon Brothers.

  After the final round of interviews, and midterm exams, Warren had agreed to spend a long weekend skiing with Larisa and two other couples—Nino Cortez and Anna Meladandri, a pair of friends from Columbia, and Kevin Salton, whom Warren and Larisa had met at a tennis tournament in San Francisco when he was in high school, and his girlfriend, Kate. Kevin, who’d graduated two years before from Stanford business school, had recently started working for one of the new “hedge funds,” which didn’t actually hedge at all, but made huge speculative bets with investors’ money and reaped huge returns if they paid off. Warren had been surprised—Kevin had known nothing about markets, and less about trading. He had been a mountain guide after college and focused on international corporate finance at business school. Salton hadn’t been sure about what he would do when he graduated from Stanford, but he said, “Warren, there is absolutely nothing I won’t do, short of killing someone, to g
et wealthy. I mean dynastically wealthy.” He seemed well on his way. Evidently he was pretty much running the new fund.

  The group’s destination was Killington in Vermont, where Kevin had rented a house on the slopes and treated everyone. The drive up had been fun, with Anna and Nino splitting most of the driving. Anna was exceptionally bright and well-read, and intensely conservative in her politics. Warren had enjoyed playing devil’s advocate on a variety of issues and was impressed by her range of knowledge. He was a little concerned when she told him she had applied to all the investment banks as well. She would be tough competition for Larisa at Weldon. Larisa hadn’t noticed—she was busy talking to Kate about shoes and face creams—two things Warren had no idea she was particularly interested in.

  The weather had been threatening all day, and just as they pulled into Kevin’s driveway, the snow began to fall. By the time they finished cleaning up from dinner and everyone retired to the porch, three or four inches were on the ground.

  “Nice day for the powder hounds tomorrow,” Kevin said, and exhaled a cloud of steam and smoke from a fat cigar. “I know some unreal tree runs if it’s still coming down.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stay to the open spaces. Last time I went tree skiing, I had to remove a couple of stumps from my chest.” Warren was beginning to get the idea he was a little out of his league in this group. He was a decent skier, but deep powder and narrow runs intimidated him. He hadn’t skied more than five or six times in his life.

  “Don’t worry, Warren, old Kevin knows all the best spots. I’ll take good care of you.”