The Buy Side (13 page)

Sitting in the conference room are Krishen and the three analysts who followed him out Raj’s front door: Nate, Angeli, and Zandy. Nate is maybe forty. His hair is perfectly coiffed in a square-back, Brylcreem, Republican sort of way. Angeli is also fortyish, and has one defiant white streak in her short black hair. Zandy is younger than I am. She worked in a lab somewhere in the U.K. My guess is her parents were hippies and they probably think she’s still in a lab trying to cure diseases. Krishen begins by apologizing about the scene he caused on Friday. He tells me a little more about what happened. He approached Raj with the idea of spinning off a new healthcare hedge
fund. Krishen hoped to get his blessing for the project. Although he doesn’t tell me the more intricate details, Krishen makes it seem that Raj would have had some type of role in the new venture, as an investor. At first Raj was receptive, a handshake. But when Krishen returned from lunch, Raj had already offered his job to Angeli. He was trying to push Krishen out and not let him take his own analyst with him. It was Raj’s way of telling Krishen to go fuck himself.

But given the disruptive events on Friday, Krishen seems just fine. In fact, the positive aura he emits is contagious. I feel like this might be an amazing opportunity. Everyone on Wall Street talks about their “number.” It’s usually a single or double digit, at least in the strata in which I exist, something like “five” or “ten.” Those numbers are the millions you need in the bank to leave Wall Street. The longer you stick around, the more children you have, the better the schools they go to, the more ex-wives and bad investments you collect, the more the number rises. I’ve never seen anyone hit their number and leave.

I was told in my first year working at Morgan that if I stayed on Wall Street longer than five years I’d never leave. They called it the Golden Handcuffs. “Maybe for
you
,” I said back to them, “but I’m different.” I wasn’t about to let money dictate how I lived my life. That attitude has served me well. I’ve now been on Wall Street seven years. I’m not really sure what my number is, but five might be enough. As I sit in Krishen’s office, that number is dancing right in front of me. On top of a salary of $150,000, Krishen offers me 3 percent of the business. I tell him I want 10. We settle at 5.

Now the only thing left for me to do is resign. Back in Galleon’s office, it’s as if someone turned up the heat. The collar of my shirt is soaked in sweat. I don’t know why I’m so worried. All of sudden I feel like a kid walking to meet the bully behind the school. I ask Gary and
Raj for a minute of their time. I can tell by their expressions that they know what’s happening. We enter a small empty office.

I have the speech all prepared. I heard myself say it in my head thirty times on the way over. Somehow the words don’t sound as forceful coming out of my mouth as they did in my thoughts. “I’d like to thank you for the opportunity and everything you’ve done for me …” I try to keep eye contact, but it’s difficult. I see the wheels beginning to turn behind Raj’s eyes before I’m halfway through. He nods his big brown head slightly. His usual happy-looking countenance is now hard and unfriendly. When I’m done he tells me he needs to speak to Gary alone for a minute. I stand by my desk and wait. All the traders are looking at me, dying to ask me what’s going on. They have a good idea but they want the details.

When Raj comes out of the office just a few minutes later, he looks like a bull about to charge. But his words are measured. “We’ll give you three hundred grand to stay,” he says. Just like that. $300k. “And we’ll wire it into your bank today.” I don’t know whether he thinks I’m too valuable to lose or he just doesn’t want Krishen to have me—probably the latter. For a moment, I consider the offer. But I’ve called my Uncle Tucker and told him about my situation. He’s given me sound advice throughout my career, but none better than in my most recent conversation: “When you make up your mind, stick with your decision,” he said. “And if you do decide to resign, don’t let them talk you out of it, because they’ll never forget.”

I knew he was right. Raj and Gary would never forget the day I took $300k from them. Someday, somehow, some way, they would get their money back. I look at the big man in front of me. His eyes shimmer with anger. “Thanks,” I say, “but I’ve already given my word.” I turn my back and walk out of Galleon for the last time.

In the summer of 2001, Argus Partners is formed. My first order of business is to start making calls to my sales traders, those who covered me when I was at Galleon. At first I’m surprised at the icy reception I receive. Then I realize, a cutthroat outfit like Galleon isn’t going to just sit idly by while Argus builds itself into a competitor. Gary tells all of Galleon’s coverage that if they do business with me, they can’t do business with him. And that means millions and millions in commissions.

I arrange face-to-face meetings with every brokerage firm on the Street. Gary might be able to bully my old sales traders into not covering me, but he can’t stop me from meeting new ones. I really believe Argus Partners is a bullet train, and if they don’t want to be left at the station, they’d better hop aboard. To signify confidence, I decide to invest in my image and buy a new suit or two.

I walk into Barneys wearing baggy shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. The casual outfit aside, I think I have a decent sense of fashion. But I also have a tattoo of Chief Wahoo, the Cleveland Indians’ mascot, on my ankle, so I’m not exactly Isaac Mizrahi. A salesman sees me wandering aimlessly and asks if he can help.

I tell him I work at a hedge fund and need some new suits. Immediately I’m led to a private dressing room where I’m cross-examined by two fashionistas named Peter and Kevin: How would I describe my style?

“Old Hollywood,” I say. “Think Clark Gable or Bogart.” I’m full of shit, but I figure I’ll just wing it.

“Colors?”

“Blues and blacks,” I say.

“Shoes?”

“Ones that fit,” I say. Peter looks down at my flip-flops and almost
pulls a muscle trying to not be judgmental. When he asks me what my social life is like, I smile.

“Cocktail parties? Charity events? Clubs?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” I say.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” he asks.

“Several,” I say. I don’t.

Peter tells me to strip down to my underwear. The changing room doesn’t have a door. Awkward. I guess this is normal. Nearly naked, I stand in the dressing room and wait. Someone new brings in a worn pair of dress shoes and a pair of socks. Smiling, I give him a short-armed wave and say hi.

Over the next two hours, suits are whisked into the room. I have a “yes” rack and a “no” rack, both of which fill quickly. I feel like I’m in the movie
Pretty Woman
, but I’m unsure if I’m Julia Roberts or Richard Gere. I look in the mirror at myself draped in Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, and Prada. With each suit I try on I feel more powerful. “Hi there, buddy,” I say to my reflection clad in the navy blue Prada. Peter is confused by my Gordon Gekko portrayal. “Sandbagged me on Bluestar, huh? I guess you think you taught the teacher a lesson that the tail can wag the dog, huh? Well, let me clue you in, pal. The ice is melting right underneath your feet.” Kevin, who has seen the movie, laughs at my performance.

I end up buying five suits, two pairs of shoes, and a bunch of shirts. I don’t even look at the amount on the American Express receipt. I just sign it and shove it into my shorts pocket. “It’ll take a couple of days to do the alterations,” Peter says. That’s fine, I think to myself, as long as I have them next week. That’s the first meeting of my brokers tour.

When I finally work up the courage to look at the receipt, it’s for over twenty-one grand, just a few grand less than what I made my first year on Wall Street. But as it turns out, my shopping spree at Barneys
is worth every penny. I get the red carpet treatment from each of the brokers I visit. In all of my meetings I’m introduced to my new sales traders. The managers at these firms must have done their homework, because almost every person I get paired up with is a young single guy who loves to entertain, which is now fine with me. I like exclusive clubs, sporting events, concerts, and fun dinners. I salvage only a few of my old salesmen from my Galleon days. Now I know twice as many people on the Street.
Thanks, Gary
.

MAYBE IT’S
the suit, or the confidence I gain wearing it, but my meeting with Goldman Sachs goes so well that they ask if I’ll speak to their new class of summer associates. When the day comes, I stand in the bar area of Bottino, an eclectic Tuscan Italian restaurant trying to be swanky. It’s just up the street from Red Rock West. I peek into the private dining room to assess my audience. Gathered around the tables are thirty or so MBA students. There isn’t a more sought-after internship than the one at Goldman Sachs, and every big business school in the country, from Harvard to Stanford to Duke to Wharton, is represented. I run back to the bar and order two shots of tequila. I want to steady my nerves. I didn’t think to prepare anything to say. “Just keep it clean,” says the guy from Goldman who asked me to speak. “You know how the Ivy Leaguers are.”

I look out into this small sea of blue shirts and red ties, with a few professional females mixed in. I hold a microphone. Thirty sets of
expectant eyes look back. I clear my throat. Just then the tequila hits my cerebral cortex, setting off an explosion of warmth that spreads through my entire body. I don’t even know why I was nervous. I bring them through my early days at Morgan Stanley and then my time at Galleon. I pepper my talk with hedge fund jargon and insider statistics, and I keep my manner folksy. “It’s like anything else,” I say to my rapt audience. “Just be human.” Heads bob in appreciation. I look over at my Goldman contact, an Ivy Leaguer himself, who smiles proudly back.

Then I notice a raised white and skinny hand in the back of the room. The question comes from a young man wearing glasses. “If I’m your broker and I want to increase my business with your hedge fund, what’s the best thing for me to do?”

“Well,” I say, “you can start by taking me to Vegas.”

I’M ON
the roof of the Thompson Hotel. With small tables lit by candlelight, potted trees, and a view of the Empire State Building, it has a look that some might call chic. It’s not exactly easy to gain entrance here. The booze is flowing, beautiful women surround me, and wealth is everywhere I look. I’m here to meet two new guys, Randy and James. They work at different firms but they’re roommates. And as fortune would have it, they’re both now covering me. Randy is tall with dark wavy hair, and he wears a sharp suit. He played lacrosse in college, and owns an athlete’s confidence. James is his sidekick. He has dirty blond hair and is a little rough around the edges, the kind of guy you want to stay a couple feet away from for fear of rogue saliva projectiles. Randy works for a big firm. I think he understands the business. He doesn’t jump right into trader talk. He wants to get to know me. I like Randy immediately. James seems like he can only talk
about booze and girls—I’m not sure about him yet. They’re with a few other Wall Street guys, who form a small semicircle around me. I’m the only one on the buy side here. I never have an empty glass. I don’t even notice my new friends ordering me drinks, but I do notice Randy banging my arm with his fist. And this time I’m ready.