by Green, Carey
Dylan followed behind him as they entered the room. The eastside of Manhattan was backlit behind Ray’s desk. Ray noticed Dylan taking in the skyline.
“Some view, huh?”
“It’s impressive during the day. At night, it’s spectacular.”
“I know. The view was what enchanted me about this place.”
“I see.” Dylan noticed that Ray was looking at him intently.
“Do you want to be rich, Dylan? I mean, really rich?”
“Why else would I be? A trader?”
“How badly do you want this job?”
“I want it badly.”
“How bad?”
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say an eleven.”
“What would you do to get this job?”
“Everything is relative.”
“Would you kill to get it?”
Dylan began to chuckle. “I hope you don’t mean that literally. I mean, that’s a little bit of an extreme, isn’t it?”
“Is it, Dylan? Listen to me. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Who am I? A man who runs a fund, a man who has had some level of success. And who are you? A trader. Well, more than that. Intelligent? Obviously. Talented? Maybe. Rebellious? Well, probably. What other type of trader is there? I am forced to decide whether to bring you on board, and this is an enormous decision. It will cost me if it goes well, and it will cost me if it doesn’t. And my question to you is, how do I weigh this decision?”
“Ray, you’ve been in business for a long time. You know your stuff, from what I’ve seen and read about your operation, so obviously you have a successful decision making framework.”
“True.”
“So you factor all that in and you make an objective decision. It’s just like any other trade. You manage your risks.”
Ray got up and moved towards the window. Dylan could tell that it was his signature gesture. Ray turned and faced Dylan again.
“I wasn’t going to hire you, you know that? There are dozens of great traders out there walking the street; hungry for work. But there was something you said. You know what it was? Loyalty is my priority. That meant something to me. You see, after 9/11 there was a paradigm shift, at least in my thinking. The business has never been quite the same.”
“I agree.”
“And then when Luke died.. It was a disaster, both on a business and a personal level. Let me show you something,” Ray sat down. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and removed a manila folder. He placed the folder on the desk, and removed several printouts from inside. The printouts were spreadsheets and graphs. Ray spread two sets of them on the desk in front of Dylan, one on the left one on the right. Ray pointed to the stack of papers on the left.
“This is before Luke died.”
Dylan looked at the numbers and the graphical representation. Trading revenue had risen steadily from the inception of the fund to the weeks preceding Luke's death. Even in choppy markets, the traders had been making money. Ray then reached forward and slid the other set forward.
“This is post Luke.”
Dylan then glanced at the alternate set that Ray had placed on his desk. Those sets of graphs showed a steep and precipitous line downward, as trading revenues had quickly plummeted. Ray gathered up the reports and put them back in the folder.
“Now, I find it hard to yield control to anyone.”
“You have your brother.”
“Yeah, when he’s not eating potato chips. Listen, Dylan, I need a solid second guy on the floor. My brother and I, it’s hard for him, because he can never seem to get himself out of my shadow. Like he’s proving something. So no matter how strong he is, he can’t seem to handle it.”
“What about your other traders? Have any of them stepped up?”
“They depended on Luke too much. It’s like they all have tunnel vision. But, they believe in me, Dylan, and that’s one thing I treasure over everything else. When I asked you if you would kill for this firm, I was joking, but not too much. Because most people here would give their life for me. They would try and walk through this wall if I asked them too. And in return I give the same back. Do you know what the irony is?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Probably the only one not like this is my brother.”
Dylan noticed that Ray's face was substantially redder. Dylan hesitated for a few seconds before looking Ray directly in the eyes.
“My brother wants to be me so bad, that sometimes I think he hates me. When Luke was here, he helped diffuse that. Now, I don’t know.”
“I’m a trader, not a psychologist. I’m also not a mind reader;.The only thing I can do is make money. That’s what I bring to the table.”
“And I think you can do it. You can be that solid second guy.”
“Well, if you think that guy is me, I’m ready for the task.”
“Are you?”
“I know I am.”
“Then I think we have a deal.”
“Great, but there is one thing,” Dylan said. “Of course, we haven’t spoken about compensation.”
“Of course. We all want to get paid.”
“I understand. What I was wondering about was a signing bonus.”
“You want a signing bonus? In this environment?”
“Well, Ray, things have been a little tight financially: I’ve been hit pretty hard by the markets. I’m reworking some investments, and I need a little cushion.”
“We all do. Dylan, I’m not in a position to go around making large financial promises in these market conditions.”
“I realize that. But, I have the track record and the experience, so a signing bonus is not out of the question.”
“How much are you looking for?”
Dylan was working through the calculation in his mind. Fifty thousand in cash might buy time for him and the gallery.
“100K.”
Ray smirked.
“Based on your performance and what we project you to do, we could put an advance in an escrow account, and have your compensation rewritten to include that. Would that help?”
“Would some of that be available up front?”
“You’re pushing it. When I do an advance like this, it’s conditional. You have one year. If you don’t meet the revenue goals stipulated in the contract, you’re out. No severance, no unemployment, no bonus. That’s the deal. You want money up front, you gotta’ work for it.”
“Okay, Ray. I can accept that.”
“Then you’re our man. Congratulations and welcome aboard!” They shook hands.
“Thank you,” Dylan said. “But there is one last question.”
Ray looked at him quizzically. He wasn’t the type of man who responded well to frequent demands.
“I’d like to bring my trading assistant with me. His name is Binky.”
“Binky?”
“It’s a prep school thing.”
“Is he good?”
“He’s a borderline mathematical and computer genius. I’m not sure if I can get him, but I’d like to try.”
“Good. Sounds like the type we could use around here. Work out his compensation with Martha and I’ll approve it. Just don’t break the bank, though.”
“I won’t.”
“Congratulations, Dylan. Welcome aboard!”
Chapter 4
Dylan had told Binky to meet him in a bar near the corner of East 86th street and Third Avenue. It was typical of the neighborhood, a low-key Irish pub on a side street off of the avenue. It was half past five and the bar was empty, awaiting the afterwork crowd that usually gathered each evening. Dylan took a seat at the bar and ordered a Guinness. Ten minutes later, Binky walked in.
“Hey, dog. What’s up?”
“Binky, how are you?”
“Good man, What’s up?”
Binky was the nickname for Charles Bannister, a prep-school moniker from Choate Rosemary Hall. Binky was in his early twenties, patrician features, with an oversized mop of brown
curls that accentuated his youth. He was wearing his favorite pair of faux-nerd horn-rimmed black glasses. He was wearing his usual outfit: black sweater, white shirt, black slacks and shoes. Hacker, musician, Neuromancer. Binky’s nickname came from his prep-school habit of walking naked, dripping and tiptoed, back to his room from the cluster of shower stalls down the hall. One morning, the resident advisor had caught him in mid-stroll, and snapped at his ass with a long, white towel. “Get some clothes on, you binky bastard, and don’t ever let me see you walking naked through the hallway again.” Binky had complied with his request, but the nicknamed stuck and remained.
“I’m good, Dylan. When do you start the new job?”
“Next week. I’m pretty excited.”
“How much money do you guys have under management?”
“Come on, Binky. You know I can’t get into that.”
“I understand.”
Dylan knew that if he had told Binky the modest amount that they had capitalized compared to his previous firm, Binky would have spilled his drink.
“Dylan,” Binky said, “you could give me a hint.”
“Hints are not facts.”
While they were speaking, a group of attractive women entered the bar and seated themselves. As they ordered drinks, Binky turned to watch them.
“So,” Dylan asked. “How are you doing, Bink?”
“Ah, I’m doing okay. Nothing great. I’m a little bored. Basically, I’m doing some bullshit programming. I am essentially a spreadsheet jockey.”
“That’s it?” Dylan asked.
“What else can I do? That’s all they’ll give me.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
Binky had a degree in computer science and had been the expert programmer on the derivates trading desk. Binky’s father ran a hedge fund, which Binky would no doubt take over one day. He was preparing for the future at a firm different from his father’s, easing the transition into the family business. When Dylan had left the firm, they had reduced Binky’s role to that of a computer programmer. Though he was still officially classified as a trading assistant, he had been reassigned to a group of people that supervised trader operations; essentially back office personnel who helped facilitate the operations that occurred on the trading floor. Out of pride, Binky had refused to quit, laboring on despite the drop in status.
“Look, Bink, there’s a reason I wanted to speak to you. I want you to come and work for me.”
“Work for you?” Binky asked, as if it were the shock of his life. “As what?”
“As my trading assistant. You would help me structure the trades and execute them.”
“After what happened? I don’t know.”
“Look, I know you got screwed when I left. That’s why I want you to come work for me. You know what I always say, ‘Loyalty is my priority.’ I promise that if you come and work for me, you will be taken care of financially if we make money trading. No corporate politics, no pecking order, no end-of-the-year speeches about the bonus pool. You will be paid based on how much money we generate trading … and on your contribution. I give you my word on that.”
“That’s what you said last time. So how much could you pay me?”
“What are you making now?”
“125K.”
“About what I figured. Listen, Binky. We’re prepared to go up to around 175.”
“Without a bonus?”
“Of course without bonus. Trust me,” Dylan said, “You will do well. Just give me a little time to work on it. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
Dylan took another hit from his beer. Binky was checking out the women sitting next to him, as he fancied himself a ladies man.
“You still playing dodgeball?”
“Oh, yeah. Where else am I going to score so easily?”
“Always got an eye out, huh?”
Binky played dodgeball in a league downtown, comprised mostly of sweet young co-eds looking for fun. He was the captain of the team, and his relationship with the ladies extended far beyond the dodgeball court. Binky had slept with at least three of them.
“I thought,” Dylan said, “that you had gotten serious with Carol.”
“I had. Then Becky came back to town. Now, I can’t decide.”
“It must be tough.” Binky laughed.
“What about you? No permanent woman these days?”
“Nope, just me and Picasso.” Picasso was a small tuxedo cat that was given to Dylan by a friend.
“Well, at least you don’t have to decide.”
“No, that I don’t. But I’ll hear from you soon?”
“Sure,” Binky said. “Give me a day or two to think about it.”
“No problem.”
“Hey,” Binky said, as he raised his glass. “Thanks for the beer.”
Chapter 5
On his first day of work, Dylan arrived at the Corbin Brothers office at precisely 7 a.m. Anxious, he hadn’t slept much the night before. He had gotten up at sunrise and made himself breakfast, and had then gone to the gym to workout. So as not to arrive too early, he had spent an hour killing time at a Starbucks. The wait seemed like an eternity.
He thought back to the jobs he had had since college. There had only been a few. Dylan took pride in. Thankfully, he had not jumped around from job to job, from employer to employer. Some of his friends were professional quitters; they changed jobs like the seasons, often on a momentary whim. He had viewed each rung as a place of achievement, a place to take one more step up the corporate ladder. This job, however, was different. Part of him felt that he was stepping off the ladder and onto the ledge. Such was the risk of working directly for a hedge fund.
He made his way up on the elevator and into the office of the Corbin Brothers.
He arrived at reception only to find that no one was there. The glass office door was open and he walked in. As Dylan made his way down the corridor towards the trading floor, he was surprised to find that all of the offices were empty. At his previous job, most of the offices were occupied by 7 a.m. When he arrived on the trading floor, Martha Thomas came over and approached him.
“Good morning, Dylan.”
“Martha, how are you?”
Martha was a tall, stunning woman with crystal blue eyes. She was nearly six feet tall. Her jet-black hair was parted straight down the middle, leaving two well-coiffed flips on each side. On her neck sat an elegant set of pearls. She was probably in her late forties but looked no older than thirty-five.
One of his first interviews at the firm had been with Martha. She had been with the Corbin brothers since the beginning, and was their trusted confidante, as well as their first employee. Based on her name and the slight hint of her accent, Dylan guessed that her family background was probably either Slavic or Eastern European, and that her last name, Thomas, was Anglicized. She carried herself with the elegance of an aristocrat.
“And when do the traders get in?”
“Oh, it depends. Around eight, sometimes eight thirty.”
“Really? That late?”
“It’s like a lot of things around here: very different.”
From the way she smiled when she said this, and the way that she lingered over the last few words, it seemed implicit to Dylan that she was inviting him to read between the lines.
“Ray is usually in by now, but got caught up on his way from the Hamptons.”
“Well,” Dylan said. “I’ll be waiting.”
Martha pointed towards a corner of the trading floor. “They’re setting up your computer now. It won’t take more than an hour.”
“Sounds great.”
Dylan made his way towards the trading terminal that had been assigned to him. It was a classic trading workstation with three computer monitors, a computer, and a speed-dial phone. The IT guy barely looked up as Dylan sat down next to him. He unpacked several of his books and his HP calculator, and removed a disk from his briefcase. Though the software at his previous firm had been proprietary, t
here were several models and spreadsheets he had developed on his own, and he felt that they would be useful in his new job. The IT guy looked up when he finished his job.
“Ready to go.”
“Thanks,” Dylan said.
The first trader arrived fifteen minutes later. His name was Richard King. King was Corbin’s right-hand man, and supposedly one of the smartest guys on the Street.
“Dylan Cash,” King said curtly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Good, I hope.”
“Certainly.”
King extended his hand stiffly, at a ninety degree angle. He was wearing a pair of perfect burgundy linen trousers, and a white-linen shirt with matching white buck shoes. His blonde pompadour was as manicured as the White House lawn, and the leather briefcase that he held from Mullholand Brothers had easily cost over one thousand dollars.
King’s face was darkly burnished by the sun, and Dylan wondered if he had just gotten off his helicopter, a summer indulgence King apparently shared with a fellow group of traders on the Street. The whirlybird picked them up each morning in Southampton and dropped them off near Wall Street. King pretended to be “hush hush” about his morning commute, but from Dylan had been told, it was the worst kept secret in the office. When King passed by the receptionist she jokingly made a whirling motion with the tip of her index finger.
“I take it you will be trading soon?”
“I hope so. That’s what I do.”
“Well, that sounds good. Ray told me you’re a technical specialist.” King said this flatly and without enthusiasm. Dylan hunched his shoulders.
“I use quite a bit of software. Computer modeling of Elliot waves, volume levels, stuff like that.”
“I know all about it,” King said curtly.
King was an accomplished physicist prior to forsaking science to chase price action. Many people said that he was a genius. Around Harvard Quad, where King had spent his undergrad days, many had simply called him God.
Steve Wong came in next, sauntering onto the trading floor in dark shades and a baseball cap. He was one of the younger traders, around twenty-five years old.
