Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

“Well, Warren, you are a second full-year associate. Which reminds me, you’ll be promoted to VP in March. Generally, there is a formula by which second-year associates get paid, but you were on commission. We weren’t going to add anything, actually, because, if you keep Bill’s list, next year the sky is the limit. It’s a great opportunity, one we want you to have. But I fought with Anson and Jamie to get this for you, and Carl agreed. We felt twenty percent of your earned commissions was generous. We hope you’re happy.” Malcolm handed Warren the sheet of paper, which spelled out the numbers. Warren knew the real number was not even close to 15 percent.

Again, Warren composed himself. Those four—now Anson had somehow been included posthumously—had basically stolen about a million dollars from him, and he could do nothing about it. In fact, he was supposed to thank them for it. He spent a few moments examining the sheet. He was now so angry he could hardly contain the shaking.

“I understand, Malcolm. And I don’t have any more questions. You all have been generous with me. Maybe I’ll stop by his grave and thank Anson personally.” Malcolm recoiled a bit at the comment. “I’m sure I’ll justify your confidence in me next year. Really.” Warren stood up and shook Malcolm’s hand.

“Warren, you should be thrilled. That’s a lot of money for someone at your level. Have a drink. Celebrate. I thought I saw that girlfriend of yours down here earlier. Take her out to dinner. You’re a big hitter.” It was typical that Malcolm wouldn’t even know that Warren and Larisa had broken up. Warren guessed Conover would make at least $3 million, working three or four days a week, and doing almost nothing except having endless meetings and looking for problems where none existed.

Warren felt his blood pulsing. “That’s a great idea. That’s just what I’ll do. Thanks, Malcolm.” Warren turned, opened the door, and walked slowly back to his desk.

Kerry looked up and blanched slightly. “Want to talk about it?”

“Fuck no. I want to kill someone. I’ll get over it. Besides, that fucking piece of shit Combes is already dead.” Warren plopped down in his chair.

“Easy, boy, easy. Keep it in perspective.” Kerry reached across the desk space and patted his hand. “Just try to keep it in perspective.”

“I will. Hey, maybe the guy who’s knocking off people around here will take me out next, and then I’ll get some real perspective. It’s just that right now my foot would like to have the perspective from about three feet up Malcolm’s ass.”

“Nice, nice. Come on—no one’s going to kill you except yourself if you don’t calm down. And you’re just part of a great tradition. You’re still new at this. Next year, they can’t screw around. Although I have heard they’re considering dropping the commission system.”

Warren’s head snapped up.

“Just kidding. Why don’t you go get a soda and think about it. Whatever they paid you, I’ll bet you there isn’t a single person that graduated with you that even made half. Chill out.”

Warren decided that she was right on all counts, and to take a walk. “You know, you’re absolutely right. I am gonna take a walk, and we are all grossly overpaid. I’m a jerk. Thanks.”

“It’s always my pleasure to help a dope realize he’s a dork. See ya.” She smiled and waved as he got up.

“I’m sorry. This is all beginning to get to me. I’ll be fine. Thanks. You’re about the only friend I’ve got around here. I’m just not used to proctology yet.” He smiled at Kerry and picked up his jacket. “I’m outta here. See you Tuesday.”

“Okay. Hey, have a good weekend, big hitter .” She put heavy sarcasm into the moniker.

“Thanks, babe. Oh, and merry fucking Christmas.”

Nobody even looked up as he headed for the door.

The cold air was invigorating, and he headed toward Battery Park. It dawned on him that Kerry, whom he liked an awful lot, had probably earned more than twice what he had been paid. And, to be honest, he was already a much better salesman than she. He caught himself up short. These were miserable thoughts. The things he was saying and doing were completely absurd. He’d been paid a fortune for making phone calls and going out to dinner. Where did he get off venting steam at Kerry, or resenting what she made? She had been helpful to him at every chance and had never done anything to undermine him. He felt guilty for the nasty thought—he blamed it on the nature of their business.

What was the nature of this business? Wall Street was a label for the most avaricious and just plain vicious aspects of American, or even human, commerce. Yet, it thrived on a self-imposed image of respectability and honesty. Then, every couple of years, someone would get caught stealing millions or maybe billions in some trading scandal, and everyone would act outraged. Every seven years there’d be some huge financial crisis born out of some Wall Street scam. But wasn’t it the same in every business? Car manufacturers would be found to scrimp on some safety detail to save a few bucks, and a thousand people would die. Cigarette makers would purposefully lie about their own health research or even target their advertising at kids. How old was the saw about the butcher with his thumb on the scale? Everyone cheated. Everyone tried to take advantage. If you weren’t caught, you were called an aggressive genius. If you were, you went to jail. Unless you were in senior management, in which case the firm paid some puny fine and nobody got punished at all.

“Yeah,” Warren said out loud to no one as he strolled the sidewalks that hugged the windowed walls of the valley of the money spinners, smoking a cigar, with a piece of paper in his pocket that said he was going to earn almost $900,000 this year, “this sucks.”

It was hard to get much sympathy from Sam. She listened to his story, then shook her head in disbelief. “Hey, only a complete asshole could be unhappy making nine hundred thousand dollars in one year. That’s a fortune. God, my best year, I made four fifty, and I had to work like a dog and travel nonstop. And I was never allowed to eat! You’re being ridiculous.” They were facing each other across the living room. She was nestled in a big, velvet armchair.

“I know. But it’s not just the amount. It’s relative. I mean, that extra money went somewhere. It went into the pockets of senior management. They know I should have gotten it. They just took it because they could. It’s not fair. Those guys are a bunch of jokers and bozos too. It’s not like they do much of anything. That’s the problem with a company like this—too much useless management.” Warren was whining a little, and Sam cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear any more about it. Fine, they stole your money. In the meantime, they left you with plenty. I can’t even believe you’re sitting here complaining about some guy who’s dead. He may have been an asshole, but he’s a dead asshole. If he was running around on his wife, so what? He’s dead and she’s loaded now. Screw him, he got what he deserved, right? Forget about him.”

“I can’t. This guy was up to something, and I can’t figure out what it was.” Warren had taken the small computer from Anson’s office off a shelf in the armoire and was plugging it in behind the end table by the couch.

“What do you mean?” Sam was confused.

“After he got killed, his secretary gave me his computer. He was working on all these deals, buying mortgages from banks, and reselling them. Only they were supposed to be bad loans—made to people who weren’t able to pay anymore, or on office buildings that didn’t have enough rental income to pay the mortgage off. But, when I checked through his files, it looked like most of the loans were actually in good shape. That’s why we were able to resell them at such a big profit. We’d buy a hundred million dollars’ worth of loans for eighty, to allow for the problems, then resell them for ninety-six or -seven, because there really weren’t that many problems. He did a lot of this stuff.” Warren had found it hard to believe Anson had been so clever, especially with smart and tough accounts such as Golden State and Warner. Whenever he’d done business with them, they would fight over every one thirty-second of 1 percent on the price of a bond, let alone 10 or 20 percent!