Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

“You gotta figure the same qualities that’ll make you a success in the slaughterhouse could also hurt you. Take opportunities, but try not to step on too many toes, or somebody will want to get you. Try to keep that razor wit of yours in your pocket.” Ken couldn’t help but give advice. Like Warren’s grandfather, Ken referred to Wall Street as “the slaughterhouse.” Even to a bookie, the action on Wall Street seemed geared to grinding up people and taking all the money.

“Thanks, Pop, I’ll try to make you proud.” Warren hammed it up, and his father rewarded him with a hearty laugh.

“Warren, I’d be proud of you if you were driving a cab and selling pencils on the subway. You’re a great son, and I love you.” The older man never let a conversation pass without expressing his affection for his children. He knew that, no matter their inattention, they thrived on it, that it gave them a secure base to build on. Ken Hament had never asked for any money from Warren, and the two never talked about it. Warren was happy to send his dad a check anyway. “I wish you were here so I could give you a big hug and a kiss.”

“Well, maybe I’ll try and get up there during my time off. You coming to town again anytime soon?” Warren heard the front door open, and Larisa saw he was on the phone and waved to him before she headed for the bedroom. He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Nope. Unless you want me at your graduation.”

“I don’t see business school graduation as a big event. I was planning on being someplace like on a sailboat, to be honest. I’ll only get a few weeks before I start work.” Warren heard Larisa close the bathroom door.

“Ah, you kids today. All you think about is self-gratification. Come visit your poor old father, and I’ll whip your butt two out of three. And if anyone gives you any guff, I’ll take ’em down!”

Warren laughed. His father hadn’t taken a set from him since his thirteenth birthday. “Dad, I’m afraid you’ve created a monster. But I gotta go. Larisa just came home.”

“Some monster. Give that girl a hug for me. How you ever landed a looker like that I’ll never understand!” They said good-bye, and Warren popped up as he put down the receiver.

Larisa was in the bathroom, washing her face. “Jesus, it was hot on the bus. How’d it go?” Her voice made bubbling sounds through the water.

“The bus? You took the bus? Not bad. Jeez, did you hear about Serena falling down the stairs?”

“Yeah, everyone was bummed. Evidently she’s in some kind of coma. It was during classes, and no one saw it. I didn’t really know her, but it’s so awful.” Larisa paused for a moment, then shrugged. “Anyways,” she said, grabbing a towel and changing the subject. “Come on! What happened? Think they’ll call you back?”

“God, that’s terrible. Jesus, a coma? Poor girl. Umm… I’m pretty sure I’ll go back, but not for a while.” Warren made his voice sound noncommittal.

“What, they have to see everyone else first?” She sounded a little deflated.

“Not exactly.”

“What then?” She was carefully blotting her face with the towel. “What did they say?”

“They said that I start in June, I’ll make about fifty-two thousand through December, plus a performance bonus if I earn it. I get money to buy clothes, and I have a placement in mortgages if I want it.” Warren leaned back, a huge grin splitting his face.

”What? You’re kidding! In 1984 dollars?” She dropped the towel and her jaw at the same time.

“Nope! No joke! That was exactly the way I imagined you’d look when I told you!” He felt a warm surge run through him… this had actually happened, and his girlfriend was ecstatic. Suddenly it seemed real.

“I don’t fucking believe it! No way!” She screamed, jumping up and down on the bathroom floor. “Yeeee-hah!” she let out a rodeo whoop, and jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, almost knocking him over. She started smothering him with little kisses. “Holy shit! Holy fucking shit! A job offer on your first round? A placement ? Jesus!”

“Yeah, they made a big deal out of it. And they said I can get a decent bonus this year too, if I contribute.”

“ More than fifty-two in your first year for six months ? That’s insane ! I made twenty-six at ITT last year, including my bonus. With an MBA, I might make forty all in if I go back. For twelve fucking months!” He had backed out of the bathroom and still supported her around his waist. “My little man is an investment banker! Hah!”

“Nope,” he said. She kissed him. “Just a low-life trader.”

She kissed him again. “That’s okay, sweetheart,” she said as they toppled back onto the bed, “I don’t mind slumming so long as the pay’s so good.”

Frank Malloran wasn’t in bad shape for squash. Not exactly good shape, but he moved pretty well for a forty-two-year-old Weldon Corporate Finance managing director. Directors worked long hours and ate far too many fancy meals with clients. Warren had been hitting high lobs to Frank’s backhand, then short drop shots, to wear him out, and Frank was beginning to wheeze a bit. He was also starting to get pissed. The two weren’t saying a whole lot, and all you could hear was the resounding thwack of the racquets, and the squeak of their sneakers on the maple floor of the brightly lit squash court.

“Eight to three.” Warren announced the score as he prepared to serve.

“I know the fucking score,” Frank growled. His side ached a bit, but he didn’t want to let on.

“Hey, Frank, if you need a break—some CPR, a little oxygen—let me know. Really, there’s no rush.”

“Hey, Warren. Screw you. Lobbing little punk. Serve ’em up.” Warren hit a soft, deep serve, which Malloran scraped off the wall. Warren drove a backhand crosscourt, which the older man scrambled after and scooped up off his shoe tops. Warren volleyed the ball hard back to the same deep corner, then took Malloran ’s defensive lob and killed it into the front corner.

“You were right. Lobbing’s not my game. Had enough?” They were both sweating, although Frank looked as if he’d just taken a fully clothed shower.

“Enough? I’m just getting started. But Jillene’ll rip me a new one if you don’t get back in time for the afternoon session.” Frank opened the door to the court, and they headed out to the locker room. “God, you’ve only had three months at the firm, and fucking off already. Squash every Tuesday afternoon with a finance guy. Shameful.”

“Yeah, well, I wish this training program would end already. Who wants to be useless overhead? I want to be a producer. Besides, I asked permission the first time.” Actually, Jillene Manus was thrilled that Warren was socializing with an MD in Corporate Finance. Warren had been rotating through the various trading desks and finance departments. Malloran’s work was mostly on international plant and equipment investments by major corporations, and there was usually little contact between the disparate parts of the firm. Warren had seen Malloran heading out with his racquet one day and told him he should try one of the new lightweight aluminum models. That led to an invitation, which had become a regular game.

“Well, I wish Jillene’d retire already. That woman is forty miles of very bad road.” They’d emerged from the hallway and entered the locker room. The racquet club locker room was cavernous, and Frank’s stall was at the far end. He was stripping as he walked. “Anyway, she can wait. You’re having luncheon with me here at my club, and we will discuss many matters of grave import and tremendous value to you and to Weldon in building your career.” Frank was walking in his jock and sneakers now and tossed everything else into a bin at the end of the last bank of wooden lockers. “Throw your crap in there. Jimmy’ll have it laundered and ready when we leave.”