Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

“No kidding.”

“Yup. Class of… maybe 1949?”

Jillene smiled. “A little before my time. What’s she do now?”

Warren filled her in, and Jillene pushed back from her desk.

“Well, sounds just like a Brearley girl. I must say, it wasn’t the most practical-minded place. I majored in philosophy at Smith, for God’s sake.” Jillene paused a moment. “Anyway, Mr. Hament, it seems you have had quite a day at Weldon Brothers.”

Warren grunted.

“And, much to my amazement, both Carl Dressler and Pete Giambi want me to break the rules. I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“If I offered you a job, and I’m not saying I will, would you take it?” She looked at him quizzically, leaning in, with a pencil touched to her lower lip.

“Umm… that depends.” Warren was grateful to Giambi for preparing him for this little game.

“Yes?”

“It depends on whether I’d have a guaranteed spot in mortgages if I wanted it.”

“Let’s say that, assuming you pass all the tests and registrations, not to mention our background check and a drug test, you did. Would you accept?”

“Can I ask the pay?”

“You can ask.” She grinned coyly.

“Can you give me an idea?”

“We’re competitive with the top payers on the Street for a new associate.”

“Well… yeah, I guess I’d have to say I’d take it.” Warren was a little overwhelmed. He’d walked in the building scared about interviewing at a bulge-bracket investment bank and was walking out with a job. An actual job, probably before almost anyone else in his class had so much as interviewed!

“Well, then. Congratulations. I am offering you a job in our 1984 training class. We will actually start you in the summer, and you’re expected to be placed by mid- to late fall. The base pay is forty-seven thousand, and you can expect a bonus of five thousand more if you are successfully placed, and significantly more if you contribute immediately to the firm’s bottom line. Obviously, there’s a full benefits package—health care and such. We will pay all your expenses for preparing and testing and registering with the various exchanges and regulatory bodies and, if you need, give you a clothing allowance of two thousand dollars. You live in New York, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then you don’t get moving expenses. We provide all the training materials, and you can have lunch on us every day, and dinner when you’re here after seven, which will be most of the time. That’s for as long as you work here. You’ll get a carrel in the training room until you’re placed, and temporary business cards. We begin in mid-June, so you’ll get a two-week break after graduation. We recommend that you get a lot of R and R, because you’re going to work your tail off once you start. You get ten days’ vacation your first year, and another week after every two years to a maximum of six weeks. Any questions so far?”

Warren shook his head no.

“Good. I’ll have an offer letter out to you tonight and will expect your signed acceptance by early next week. If you turn me down, you will never work at Weldon. Your paperwork will be processed when you start in June.” She picked up the stack of papers in front of her and tapped them to straighten the pile. “It doesn’t usually work this way. You’re lucky. Honestly, I think serendipity may have played a role here.”

“Serendipity? How?” Warren wasn’t sure what was coming.

“We interviewed a young lady last week who I thought was very impressive. As luck would have it, she has had to withdraw. A terrible story.”

“Terrible? Why? What happened?” He was a little off-balance.

“She fell down the stairs at Uris Hall yesterday. Broke her collarbone and a few ribs and got a terrible head injury.”

“Uris Hall? She went to Columbia? Who was it?” Warren looked up, surprised.

“Serena Marchand. Did you know her? She was very interested in mortgage trading too.” Jillene thumbed through another stack and pulled out her résumé.

“Serena? She got hurt? I didn’t hear. Jeez, that’s terrible. Is she gonna be okay?” He hadn’t been to school since the previous morning.

“Well, her adviser called and said she was in critical condition, was not going to be able to take finals, so we may not be able to consider her for the entering training class.”

“Wow. God.” Warren wasn’t sure of what else to say.

Jillene stood up and put her hand out. “I have just one question left for you.”

Warren stood up, took her hand, and raised his eyebrows. “And that is…?”

“When you get on the floor, are you going to be good, or are you going to be great?”

“Both, I hope.”

“Good answer. Welcome to Weldon.” They shook hands. Jillene’s grip felt like a steel vise.

When he got to her apartment in Chelsea, Warren was disappointed that Larisa wasn’t home from classes yet. She had been more nervous about the interview at Weldon than he was, and neither of them had dreamed he would come home with an offer. Goldman Sachs was known to pass a potential hire through as many as forty separate interviews over four or five weeks. Warren knew Larisa would be ecstatic. She’d left the key for him with the super, a lethargic man in a mechanic’s uniform with JIMMY embroidered on the pocket. His name actually was Carlos, and he made Warren wait for five minutes while he searched for the envelope.

As soon as Warren got through the door, he tore off his suit jacket and tie and rummaged through the refrigerator for a beer. As usual, nothing was in there except some old yogurt and a bottle of white wine. He took out the wine, threw away the yogurt, and found a clean glass. The cork came out easily, and once his glass was filled, he sat down by the phone and called his father.

Ken Hament had followed Warren’s advancement with amazement. The world of finance left him totally cold—he understood it about as well as programming a VCR. The amounts of money seemed unreal to him. Warren had told him if he got a job at one of the big firms, he hoped, after his first six months, to make close to $100,000 a year. There was no answer at his dad’s house, so he left a message and flipped on the TV. To his surprise, the phone rang less than five minutes later.

“Hey, kiddo, it’s yer pappy!”

“Hey! Figured you’d be out and about all day.” Warren was used to his dad’s unpredictable travel schedule, and knew it might take him four or five days before he checked his messages.

“Actually, I was down your way yesterday. Didn’t want to disturb you, what with the big day and all.”

“You were in the city? Jeez, I woulda loved to have dinner or a drink with you! What made you take the long drive? Important client?”

“Something like that. I had to see the Dunlop factory rep for the club. They’ve gotta give us more of a break on our orders.”

“You were always a hustler, Pop. Still, it would have been nice to shoot the breeze. But I have some good news!” Warren recounted in detail what had happened at Weldon. When he told his father his starting pay, his dad let out a low whistle.

“Well, Warren me boy, don’t let it all go to your head. You’re a smart kid—Christ, you and Danny are the two smartest people I know other than your mother. You’re more like your grandpa than me. He was a tough SOB. You got his head for numbers too.” Ben Hament had been a successful bookie in Baltimore when it wasn’t strictly illegal and fought off the Mafia for almost ten years before they shot him in his living room. He retired immediately. “Just stay humble, and keep your head down. Those big companies can be murder.”

Warren stifled his usual impatience with his father’s advice. He’d coached Warren to play tennis with control and tone down his power. Despite himself, Warren knew that his inability, or unwillingness, to take his father’s counsel was probably what had limited him to being merely a good college player, but nothing more.