The Buy Side (15 page)

Gus digs in his pocket and surprises us with a few ecstasy pills and some weed. We traders on Wall Street pride ourselves on being the ultimate alchemists. Drugs, alcohol, money, and sex are all ingredients in the elixir of power. I grab two pills and pop them immediately. James and Randy both take one and Gus puts the remaining pill in his pocket, saving it for later, I guess.

One of the bartenders catches my eye. She’s tiny, but busty. Exactly my type, pure and purely sexy. Her hair is auburn brown with a perfect Jennifer Aniston wave. I try to make eye contact, but I’m twenty feet away and she’s busy filling glasses with ice and bourbon. After a few moments, I tell Randy to investigate. He knows most of the girls working here and enjoys doing me the favor. He also likes making his
own moves. Randy runs his fingers through his wavy hair. The girls love him. It must be the ex-lacrosse thing—even the twenty pounds he’s put on since his playing days don’t diminish his allure. As he gets up to find out more about the bartender, he starts peppering Desirre with his own questions: “You single yet? What’s your real name? You throw the cat around?”

Meanwhile, Gus, who works for a small broker-dealer, starts telling me how much he loves trading. “Yo, I had a buyer and a seller of Forest Labs today,” he says. He keeps talking. He’s coming dangerously close to being labeled Johnny Wall Street. Randy and I have names for guys like this—we just say “J Wall” for short. He’s the guy who wears button-down shirts untucked over his khakis. In the office he tells you to protect him on the lunch print, his
cool
way of telling you to order him lunch. Johnny Wall says he’s a size buyer when he sees a hot chick. He tells you at happy hour how he whacked a bid and sold another 250,000 shares behind it. At dinner he brings up commissions and research. He asks you what your favorite stock ideas are as you put a slice of buffalo mozzarella in your mouth. He doesn’t own any stocks; he just wants to impress. Johnny is the last one to show up at your high school reunion, driving his new car and checking his Rolex. Johnny Wall is a douche.

“So you know what I did,” Gus says. I wish Randy were here listening to Gus’s trader talk. “I fucking plugged the buyer.” I shake my head in acknowledgment. “The seller was my boy, so I took care of him,” he says.

Then Randy comes back with his intel. The bartender’s name is Lily, she’s from Long Island, and she has a son, but she’s single. He doesn’t tell me if she’s the freak of the week. Randy taps Gus on the shoulder, the signal for him to call the limo. “Should be here in
twenty,” Gus yells over the din of the bar. I have to work fast, but I’m fueled up and bulletproof. I’m on my third tequila on the rocks and my pocket is full of cocaine. I leave the other three guys at the booth.

Lily smiles and asks if I need another. I smile back and ask to borrow a pen. I grab a cocktail napkin.
You have a beautiful soul
, I write,
and a beautiful smile
. I then add my name, age, and telephone number. I’m just about to fold it and hand it to her when I realize that I couldn’t be any less creative if I tried. I should put my journalism degree to work. I open the napkin up and add:
Best dance move: the Towel Dance
. There’s no shot she knows what the towel dance is, and that’s exactly my point. I neatly fold the napkin and hand it to her. Randy motions to me that the limo is waiting. It’s 10:33 p.m.

The limo is white, with red leather interior. A shiny disco ball hangs from the center ceiling with purple neon undercarriage lighting. The carpet is leopard-print shag. “Rock the Boat” by the Hues Corporation blares from the oversize speakers. The car is so ridiculous, it’s actually cool. The driver’s name is Big Al; he looks like Ron Jeremy, the old porn star. Big Al has no rules. Randy and James sit on the upper-left side of the limo while Gus and I sit in the back. We pass a joint. “Did you guys see Intel’s earnings after the bell?” Gus says.

I look over at Randy. “Strike two,” I mouth as I hold up two fingers. As I look at Gus, I mull over my options of how to respond: a) politely ask him to not talk business; b) tell him to find the next PATH train back to Jersey; c) ignore him; or d) … “I took fourth place at the science fair in junior high,” I say. I widen my eyes and nod a little to affirm it’s really true.

Gus looks like he’s just been voted off
American Idol
. He senses he said something wrong, but he can’t figure out what it is. He seems like an okay guy, and so far I’m having a good night. But talking business when you’re supposed to be out having fun is a pet peeve of mine. Gus
doesn’t realize it, but I know what he’s up to. I knew it from the White House. He wants me to open an account with him. But he’s going about it the wrong way. I respect people who play the game correctly: become my friend first, and then we’ll talk business.

We pull curbside to the velvet rope at Suite Sixteen. Outside the club, a crowd waits for the bouncer’s approval. Stoned, high, and drunk, we stumble out of the limo to the front of the line. Randy slips the bouncer a hundred-dollar bill and the gates open. Inside I see the general manager—his name is Jason, he’s a friend of a friend of a friend, born and raised in New York, a blond-haired Jewish twenty-something. “Oh, man, we just slipped your boy some money—I didn’t know you work during the week,” I say.

“Always ask, Turney,” he says. “Always ask. We’re opening up a new club called Marquis next summer. You better come to the grand opening.”

“Thanks, man, definitely,” I say as he hands us over to the hostess. We tell her we need a table and she leads us to the curvy banquettes in the back lounge. The crowd that surrounds us seems to move to the beat of the music. As we pass through, I see a plethora of sexy women—it looks like a casting call for
The Bachelor
. The few men who are here have their downtown attire on: chain wallets, Puma sweat wristbands, and faded jeans. We’re the only signs of Wall Street.

The waitress stuffs bottles of Veuve Clicquot into a bucket of ice. The bottles are only half liters, so we order multiple. Eminem blasts from the speakers as girls dance by our table. The bathroom here is worse than the one at the Wetbar. It has only one urinal and one stall without a door. I give it one Zip. Gus takes out his wallet and fumbles through some bills before he retrieves a hundred. He hands it to the bathroom attendant like he’s paying a toll.

Back at the banquette, the thunderous beat makes it difficult to
hold a conversation. But each bass note seems to pump the coke that courses through my body. The champagne makes it all fuzzy and warm. Everyone at the table must feel the same, because we just smile and nod at one another.

Two girls at the booth on my left lean over and tell me they’re in college. Wide eyed, with smooth skin, and a bit gawky, they look the part. They also look uncomfortable. I pour them both a glass of champagne. They tell me they appreciate the free alcohol but don’t usually drink champagne. Neither do I, I say. We toast to the universe for allowing our paths to cross. When they ask me what I do, I hesitate.

“I work on Wall Street,” I say.

“And?” one of the girls says, expecting more. “Whaddya do?”

“I work at a hedge fund. I’m a trader,” I explain.

“Cool, but whaddya do?” the other one asks.

I’ve had this conversation many times; normally, people have no idea what I’m talking about. They think I wear a blue jacket and make funny hand signals all day on the floor of the stock exchange. Even my family and close friends aren’t sure what I do. Sometimes I’m even asked for stock tips, when they should be asking someone who researches stocks, like an analyst or portfolio manager. I pull a trigger. I’m told to buy 100,000 shares of JNJ. It’s my job to know how, where, and when to do it. It’s a high-wire act. The college girl persists.

It’s one of the great mysteries of the universe. Everybody says they want to know how Wall Street works, but the truth is, all they really want to hear is how much money I make—or how much I can make for
them
. “Well,” I say, struggling to be heard over the music, “basically, institutions and people give us money to invest because we’re going to make more for them than they could make on their own. For that service, we charge a fee and take twenty percent of the profits.” I have the girls’ attention, and the coke is fueling my narrative. “It’s like
this,” I continue. “Say you invest a hundred dollars, and for that investment you get a return of ten bucks. Not bad, right?” The girls nod. “But what if I was to tell you for the same hundred I could get you a return of fifty? Would you do it?” Now the girls nod enthusiastically. “All I ask for is ten dollars of the profits and a nominal fee.”

“Wow,” says the girl closest to me. “You can really do that?”

“Give me a hundred and I’ll show you,” I say, lifting my glass.

One of the girls spills her champagne. They both giggle as the one friend tries to wipe the other dry with a tissue. The scene is endearing. It reminds me of my college days, or the first years I was in New York, when I had only intimate friends. Everything changed when I went to the buy side. Now sometimes it’s as if I can’t trust anyone I do business with.
What do they really want?
I always have to ask myself. I’m envious of the innocent connection these college girls have.

Hours pass and the college girls have to go home—maybe they have a quiz in the morning. I’m sad to see them leave. If I liked them less, I would have tried to trick them into going home with me. I still live on Sixty-Seventh and Amsterdam. Sometimes I ask girls if they want to go to an underground club called Club 67. When the taxi pulls up to my building, they start to get suspicious. But my doorman is in on the ruse, and when I ask him if the club is open he’ll say: “Yes, go on up.” I’ve walked a number of girls into my apartment and only one has screamed and run back to the elevator. I exchange numbers with the college girls and watch as the crowd swallows them on their way out.

It’s past two a.m. I can’t speak. The drugs and alcohol have taken over. What initially allowed me to say and do whatever I want is gone, leaving only paranoia, guilt, and shame. When you’re this fucked up, there’s only one way to change the way you feel: do more coke. I motion to Gus, Randy, and James that I’m heading to the bathroom.
The door attendant snickers when he sees me. I’ve walked past him ten times already. I glance at the mirror. My hair is standing up and my face is red and sweaty. I duck into the stall and pull out my bag. It’s almost empty. I shovel my apartment key into it and snuff the few remaining bumps into my nose and then peel open the bag and lick it. I pop the bag into my mouth and suck on it for a bit.

Back upstairs. Randy and James are gone—poof—vanished, and I’m stuck with Turbo. I turn to head out. From behind, Gus grabs my arm. “You want to make a move?” I’m torn: part of me wants to sneak off into the night and go home, but the other part of me knows the night isn’t over. I shrug. Only for something good, I tell him. Gus tracks down our waitress and signs the check.

Gus has rented a room at the W Hotel for the night. We make our way back there to snort more cocaine. He has a lot left in his bag. I begin to regret shutting him down earlier in the limo. I decide to ask him about his business. At first he hesitates, but a fresh, fat line of cocaine gives him the shot of courage. He had Wall Street internships in college, he says. He knew from a very early age that he wanted to work on the Street. His father was in the business for many years and made a pile of cash. It’s funny how small the Wall Street world is. Turns out, I met his dad once or twice, back when I was interviewing for jobs. My uncle is friendly with his dad. Gus is starting to grow on me.

“We can call some hooks if you want,” he says. I assess the layout of the room, two double beds separated by a nightstand. Tempting offer, but I’m going to pass. The two of us take turns snorting lines, smoking cigarettes, and laughing. The next thirty minutes escape us.

“I’m gonna head home and try and get a couple of hours of sleep,” I say. Gus picks up the remote and orders porn. I’m a huge fan of pornography, but watching it with another dude makes me uncomfortable. I thank him for the night and tell him we should hang out
again real soon. I glance at his bag of cocaine. Before I even ask, he offers me half of it. I leave him with a nice little mound on the nightstand and stuff the rest in my pocket.

I’m just about at the door when he calls to me.
Shit
, I think,
here it comes
. He made a comeback—he was doing so well. He can’t help himself. Right down the middle … Strike three.

“Do you think we could open up an account?” he asks.

I stop and turn around. I’m vibrating from cocaine. “Can I give you some advice?” I say with a rasp. For the first time all night I notice how coked-out he looks. His eyes bulge.

“Don’t ever ask. And if you have to ask, wait a week, a month or two. Work it a little bit, ya know? Pretend we’re friends, act like you don’t care about the business, just play it cool, fake it.” He sits on one of the beds, but hangs on my every word. “If you ask on the first night”—I put both my arms out and shrug my shoulders—“then I know, ya know?”

Yes, he helped pay for the cocaine in the White House, he paid the bill at the Wetbar and for the limo over to Suite Sixteen. Yes, he paid for the countless bottles of champagne. Yes, he even let me take half of the remaining coke, and, yes, he offered me a hooker. No! Don’t ask. This is how the game is played, and it’s still too early. If I wanted, I could take his room for the night, borrow his shoes, and make him dance barefoot.

“Thanks, man, I appreciate the advice,” he says, looking down at the floor.

“Just let it happen naturally,” I say. I’m practically in the hallway when I stop.
“Yes,”
I say.

“Yes, what?” he asks.

“Yes, I’ll open an account with you tomorrow.”

It’s four a.m. I’m somewhere on Lexington Avenue and I’m looking
for a cab. I remember I know someone who lives close. I scroll my phone for the number. When I call she picks up. Ten minutes later she unchains the lock and lets me in. Barbara is in her late forties and on the tail end of her escort career. Her apartment is lined with Christmas lights year-round, and there’s a mattress with no box spring in the far corner just outside of her bathroom. The couch, television, and coffee table look like the ones I had in college that I shared with seven roommates. Like her, the apartment is well worn but not well loved. Barbara wears a black lace nightie.