Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

“Um, no, sir. I’ve just found trading fascinating, I’m extremely interested in mortgage-backed securities, and—” Warren was about to say he just wanted a chance to get into the system, but Pike cut him off.

“You’ve found trading fascinating. Just exactly what the fuck have you traded in your illustrious career, Mr. Hament?” Pike had stopped, bent over, at the screens, perused them, and looked up at Warren.

“Well, I traded metals and some other futures on the COMEX and NYMEX, and a few financial futures through a friend who is a member of the Chicago Board of Trade—”

“Financial futures? Let me tell you, Wonderfuck, you don’t know fuck-all about financial futures. Did you know that I created half of the fucking futures contracts? Did you know that? I hate guys like you. Fucking locals. Scalpers.” Pike was pacing again, his voice heavily laced with disgust and anger. “We eat guys like you for fucking lunch. Man, Weldon could just fucking crush you like dust if it wanted to, did you know that, you fucking Wonderputz? A bunch of fucking parasites.” Pike seemed ready to pop a blood clot. Warren was nervous for real, beginning to wonder if this was just a “stress” interview, which the placement office had prepared him for, or if Pike actually didn’t like him for some reason.

“Um, Mr. Pike, I didn’t mean to suggest that I could compete with Weldon…. I haven’t traded anything for almost two years.” Warren could see no other option but to be almost submissive.

“Yeah, and if you were ever to work at Weldon, you might never trade anything again. We tell you if you sell or trade or wash windows, we tell you when you have to go to the bathroom. You fuckwads think you know it all. You know jack shit. Jack fucking shit.” Pike finished his soliloquy by plopping down in his chair, behind the desk, in front of the screens.

“Yessir.” Warren blended the words on purpose. Pike had just said “if you were ever to work at Weldon.” That wasn’t the kind of thing you said to someone you didn’t think had a chance. Warren decided to play along and be superhumble. “And that’s exactly why someone like me would consider it a great opportunity to work at Weldon. For the chance to work with experienced pros like you, guys who’ve been through it all and are at the top. Where hard work and some guts might pay off.”

“Ho-ho-ho, Mr. Warren Hament. Brown fucking University. I like it. ‘Experienced pros?’ You making a little fun with me, asshole? Very nice, scumbag. I like it. Now get the fuck out of my office.” Pike turned his back on Warren.

Warren took a second to figure out how to respond. He just went with it. “Might you tell me where I could find Mr. Dressler?” Carl Dressler, head of mortgages, was the next name on the list. Warren would be ten minutes early. Pike had been playing with him—the Cornell “mistake” was some kind of test.

“Out there. Call that fat little faggot Polack. He’s your nursemaid, isn’t he?” Pike pointed toward the trading floor.

“Thanks. Nice to meet you.” Warren was soaked with sweat, but had the sense that Pike liked to see how potential hires stood up under the abuse.

Pike flashed him a grin. “The pleasure was all mine, son. Close the door, wouldya?”

Warren stood outside the office for a moment to regroup. The onslaught of crudeness, vulgarity, hostility, and bigotry was not what he had expected, even in a stress interview, but he felt he’d done okay. Being around the crudeness of the commodities exchange had built up some immunity, but the relative peace and decency at Columbia had made it a bit of a shock.

He headed back toward the reception desk, where he asked for Symanski. The receptionist handed him the phone.

“Did you love him, big guy? Was he great?” Symanski was obviously eating, his words muffled.

“Terrific. It was a lovefest. Thanks for the tip. What should I do now? Go see Dressler or just hang myself in the bathroom?” Warren was trying to adopt the collegial tone. “You free to bring me over?”

“Save that for later. Carl’s on the floor. I see him from here. Wait. I’ll get him. Meet us in the office two down from Pike’s. Just wait there.”

Warren hung up and backtracked. As he passed Pike’s office again, he saw him putting at the distant sofa leg and noticed a collection of balls, all five feet or more short, and all left. He went into the open office down two doors.

After Warren had spent a few minutes alone thinking things over, Carl Dressler walked in and shook his hand. Dressler ran the mortgage-backed-securities department, which was clearly the hottest area in the firm. Word had it they were making money hand over fist. He was surprisingly muscular, with long, thick hair, but an incongruously, nasal voice with a San Fernando Valley twang. He peered at Warren through round, wire-rimmed glasses.

“Hi. I’m Carl Dressler, I run the mortgage desk. I see you’re at Columbia.” He pulled up a chair and gestured for Warren to sit.

“Yes, sir. I graduate in May,” Warren answered neutrally.

“What do you think you might like to do?” Dressler s manner was so different from Pike’s, Warren had to take a second just to slow down from the frantic assault to a civilized interview.

“I think I might like to trade mortgages for you, Mr. Dressler.” Warren couldn’t help but smile when he said that because he believed he meant it. He instantly felt comfortable with Dressler and already liked him.

“What makes you think that? And call me Carl.” Dressler steepled his fingers and pressed the spire against his pursed lips as he focused on Warren.

“It’s obvious the two growth areas on the Street are mortgages and structured products. It’s between Weldon, Salomon, and First Boston for best in both businesses, and I personally think Weldon’s going to come out on top.” Warren’s conversation with Austin Karr and his reading were paying off.

“Why’s that?” Dressler had a small grin on his face.

“Because of you. And Pete Giambi. Between your desk and his research, I don’t see who can beat you. I’d love to be a part of that.” Warren tried to make his enthusiasm sound as real as it felt.

“You’ve done a little homework.” Dressler suddenly shifted the topic. “Where are you from?”

“I grew up mostly on the East End of Long Island and then upstate.”

“Upstate?”

“In a town called Millbrook—it’s near Poughkeepsie.”

“I know Millbrook,” Dressler said, waving his hand. “It’s where a few of the investment bankers keep their wives’ horses.” He added derisively, “Are you some kind of polo player?”

“Not really, sir. I ride a little because I used to take care of people’s horses during the summer. My dad was a tennis coach and liked to buy and sell houses. My mother’s a teacher.”

“She moved around with your father?”

“No. Actually, they were divorced a long time ago. I spent the school year with my dad in Millbrook and then on the East End, and summers with my mom in Manhattan. She had the summers off, and my dad had to travel a lot.”

“What kind of teacher?”

Warren was surprised at how curious Dressler was about his family. “She was an art history professor at NYU.”

“Impressive. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yes. I have an older brother, Danny. He’s a doctor—actually a cancer researcher in Houston. He’s older than me. He went to boarding school, so I didn’t see much of him after sixth grade.”

“Are you married?”

“No. I have a great girlfriend at Columbia, though.”

“A father who taught tennis, and a mother who teaches art history. She must be something of a scholar. How did you wind up here? Why are you looking to become a trader?” Dressler’s tone was mild and inquisitive, almost psychiatric.