Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

“You don’t want to finish that sentence. We know each other pretty well by now. At least, I’d like to think so.” He still had the jewels in his outstretched hand.

“Yeah, well, maybe so. But, you know, jewelry puts things on a different level.”

“What, a more serious level? Maybe that’s the level I want to be on here.”

“I don’t know. Isn’t there some saying about this kind of thing? Like strangers bearing Trojan horses or something?”

“Forget about it. Take them on a test drive, and we’ll worry about the levels later.”

She tried them on, carefully clipping the posts behind her lobes. She bent over to check herself out in one of the mirrored walls. “Jesus, they look great. I can’t believe it.”

“Modesty becomes you, my dear. But those actually become you more.”

“God, I think these are the nicest gift anyone has ever given me. Are you sure…”

“Hey, I’m sure. I don’t want you thinking this whole thing is about a plane ticket and a couple of weekends. When you decide that I’m just a dull bond salesman and dump me for some Hollywood big shot, at least you’ll have something to remember me by, or to hock when he steals the rest of your money,” Warren said with a smile creasing his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. I meant to tell you—Bob Redford just invited me down to his place for the weekend with George Lucas and Dustin Hoffman. Gotta go!… Come on, you’re not dull at all! All your friends are getting killed all the time, you know all about jerk-off bonds, and you play golf, a very exciting game. This is kind of fun.”

“Yeah, until they decide to kill me.”

“Well, until then we’ll have a good time and be well fed. Now, let’s pay the bill, take a walk, and start discussing dinner. I like Italian food a lot.”

“Are you serious?”

“It takes a lot of fuel to keep me going.”

“Well then, what’ll it be—regular or premium?”

“Umm… I think you know the answer to that question.”

“I think you’re right.”

After loafing around town with Sam, going back to work was something of a shock to the system, and a relief to the digestive tract. The week before Christmas is traditionally supposed to be slow on Wall Street, but according to most of the veterans on the trading floor, it never turned out that way. Warren had a backlog of calls to return, and the day passed quickly and stressfully, arguing with the treasury-bond traders about some prices they gave his clients for trades, and missing a lot of business to other dealers. By four o’clock, Warren realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and he’d only had time for a brief chat with Sam, who was at his gym getting a massage.

Finally, there was a lull, and Warren caught up with Kerry Bowen, who also looked totally spent, her hair mussed, and her eyes red. Warren was uncertain how to broach the subject of his pay with Malcolm Conover, as he knew he’d be earning a straight commission on his own accounts for the year, but wasn’t sure how he would be paid for the work he’d done the past months with Dougherty’s old accounts. Kerry had advised him to go right in to Malcolm the first week after Dougherty’s death and straighten it out, but when he’d tried, Malcolm had been evasive and told him not to worry about it. She was writing out the day’s last trade ticket when she felt Warren staring at her.

“Okay, Warren, what’s up? I feel like the Gorgon is watching me. This has been the day from hell.” She looked up from her work, sensing that he wanted to talk.

“The usual. It’s driving me nuts. I’m going nonstop here, but I have no clue what it all means.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Listen, they’re doing all the traders’ final bonus numbers today. In fact, I think they’ll start telling people after the close. I’m sure you’ll be told, too. Relax, it’s almost over, and there’s nothing you can do about it, so why worry?” Kerry already knew to the penny what she would be paid for the year, since she was on a straight commission. Warren honestly didn’t have a clue. On full commission, he’d be getting just under $2 million. The commissions on his base accounts were $750,000. He had increased his production 50 percent with them. It was a lot of money either way, but a huge range. In his heart, he figured they’d give him $1 or $1.1 million. What galled him was that the rest of the money, almost a million dollars, would probably be split up by the three department heads.

“Yeah, you’re right. I should just sit back and enjoy the ride.” His sarcastic tone elicited a wan smile from Kerry.

“C’mon. It’s Christmas. It could be worse. You could be actually working for a living, instead of just pushing bonds. Cheer up.”

At that moment, Malcolm Conover appeared behind Kerry. “Hey, Warren, got a second?’ Malcolm gestured toward his office.

“Absolutely.” Warren felt his stomach tighten. They must have finished preparing everyone’s pay numbers early for a change. It was showtime.

Malcolm’s office was smaller than Frank Tonelli’s or Jamie Holik’s, but had a better view out over the harbor. He had decorated the walls with posters from the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Warren knew that Malcolm had been a mediocre salesman in the Philadelphia office before being asked to come to New York as national sales manager. “Those who can, do; those who can’t, manage” had been Bill Dougherty’s favorite description of Malcolm. Warren took a chair and crossed his legs. He held his hands in his lap to cover his nervousness.

“Well, Warren,” Malcolm started as he sat behind his desk, “you’ve had an interesting year.”

“I’ll say.”

“Yeah. But it’s been a pretty good year. You’ve done a good job with your own list, and a nice job covering for Bill. I’m sure you’ll do just as well helping pick up the slack for Anson until he is replaced.”

“Thanks, I’ve tried.” Warren didn’t like the choice of words. Covering for Bill. Picking up the slack. He hunched forward a little. It felt like a lottery drawing.

“Anyway, the point is, you’re in a unique situation. Your own sales credits add up to seven hundred and forty-two thousand in compensation for the year. You’ll be receiving a check for that, less your seventy thousand draw, in ten days, after New Year’s. We’ve also decided to add something for the extra work you’ve done. That will be an additional twenty percent or so, another hundred and twenty-five thousand. We think you’re doing a good job, and coming along fast. This is the most any second, full-year Fixed Income associate has ever made at Weldon, over eight hundred thousand dollars in total comp, and we think you should be proud.” Malcolm looked up from the sheet of paper he was holding with a smile. “How do you feel about it?”

Warren actually felt kind of numb. He’d just been told he was going to earn over three-quarters of a million dollars at age twenty-eight, more than ten times what he’d expected to make just two years ago. But he was pissed. So pissed, he was sure the tingling in his face was evident as a flush. He started to talk, but stopped himself. Malcolm was looking at him, eyes wide-open, in an earnest look of almost paternal pride. Warren composed himself.

“Well, Malcolm, I want to thank you. It’s a fortune, and I’m glad you gave me the opportunity to be sitting here. I am truly grateful. I know that the final numbers are in, and there is nothing that will change them. I am curious, though, about one thing.” Warren heard his voice quavering just slightly.

“What’s that?” Malcolm’s look had changed to one of carefully furrowed eyebrows.

“Last year, you told me there was a cap that I didn’t know about. This year I increased production 50 percent with my accounts, helped Bill book huge trades, and then in just two months, I produced almost nine million in gross with Bill’s list. That’s as much as he did in the first ten months. On his nine million, he got paid about a million three. How come I only get one twenty-five? How did you all come to that number?” Warren’s tone was reasonable, not at all angry.