Mike Offit: Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street

“I know they’re a lower-tier firm now, but it’s hard to dismiss Sacramento. If the parent company is really behind them, they can’t miss. After Pru, they’re the biggest financial company in the world.” Between the life insurance company and the investment management and mutual funds business, Sacramento Mutual Life controlled $293 billion in assets. They were also one of the biggest clients of Wall Street.

“That’s true about Sacremento, but both they and Pru are basically retail shops, they sell to moms and pops, not the big institutional money managers and institutions like we do.” Warren couldn’t help but have a bit of the bulge-bracket snobbery.

“Yup. That’s true. But they want the prestige, and they’ve gotten sick of letting all the other firms take their fees and business because the investment bank they own can’t handle the assignments.” The implication of an inside track to Sacramento Life’s business was immense.

“Would I get to cover them—the parent company? On commission?”

“It’s possible.”

The salesman at Weldon who covered Sacramento had earned $1.3 million in net commissions from that one account alone last year, without any favored-nation status. “Who would I be meeting?”

“The first guy would be Bill Cunningham. He’s the head of Fixed Income Sales and Trading. Then Jack McDougal, National Sales manager. After that, it’s up to them.”

“What’s their background?”

“Well, they both came from B. H. Koger, I believe, when it broke up.”

Koger had been a reasonably successful company about ten or fifteen years before, Warren knew, that specialized in trading US treasury bonds and agency debt, such as the paper of the Federal Home Loan Banks or Fannie Mae. It had been dissolved when it suffered some big losses and its partners pulled their capital before it was completely wiped out. He didn’t know much about the firm other than that its ex-traders had populated many of the Street’s trading desks after the blowup, and that most of them had retired by now or been fired. They were dinosaurs from an earlier age when margins were bigger, and the amount of money that had to be made to be considered a successful trader was measured in the single millions, not in the tens or hundreds. They were also known as an Irish firm.

“Do these people know anything about mortgages or corporates? Or are they just agency traders and retail geeks?”

“Ask them.” George clearly wanted to get Warren in the door for the interview, as any good headhunter would. You can’t make a sale if the customer isn’t in the store.

“You know, George, I don’t think so. I think I’m going to pass.”

“Really? Warren, this is a huge financial powerhouse, and they’d be ready to guarantee you much more than you made this year against commissions that could easily double or triple your pay.” Charpentier was not about to give up.

“George, I get it. This was my first year making any real money. I’m cheap right now. I should be able to double my take-home next year at Weldon. So, they’d be getting me low. I made a million bucks this year. If they’d guarantee me two point five per for two years with a bigger payout and covering Sacramento along with two of the top-five pensions and another insurer in the top five and one in the top ten, we could talk. Otherwise, I’m only interested in a bulge bracket firm.” Warren had no interest working at a third-rate firm. They were filled with third-raters and legal departments that treated their own employees like the enemy, waiting for the chance to screw them.

“Jeez, Warren, you sure you’re not a trader? Those are some pretty steep terms.” George was a bit deflated.

“Hey, I didn’t call you. But I do have a question for you.”

“Sure, what’s that?”

“I heard you are consulting with Merrill on their associates program?” The giant investment shop had recently started overhauling how it hired college graduates, looking to broaden its reach from just the top colleges.

“Yes, I am. They’re looking for college grads outside the usual finance or econ majors.”

“Well, there’s a kid I interviewed here the other day who was really exceptional, but it turns out he can’t work here because his mother does.” This wasn’t true, but Warren figured a good turn for someone made up for a fib.

“Really? So?” George actually sounded vaguely interested.

“Well, I think he’d be a great fit for Merrill. He understood mortgage derivatives amazingly well for a college kid, and I know those guys are trying to beef up. You really should get him in there ASAP. I liked him, and I like his mom a lot. Whether or not things work out for me. His name is Harold Baker. His mom is a great lady.” Warren had given Annlois a thick publication on derivatives to send to her son and hoped he’d actually read it.

“Hey, seriously, that’s great! I was just talking to the head of the program, and he was saying he wished they could use recruiters to screen all the applicants! Harold Baker. Tell him to send me his résumé, and I’ll get him into the rotation.” Warren liked the way headhunters called themselves executive recruiters. “I’m sorry you’re not interested in Sacramento. Let me know if you think any of your colleagues might be.”

“Have you talked to Alex?” Warren figured something like this might appeal to the perennially depressed mortgage trader.

“Hah! Many times. He’s afraid of his own shadow. I had him two mil at Bear Stearns last year and he said no. He’s a hopeless waste of time who would rather complain than do anything.”

The two signed off, and still at his desk, Warren paid a few bills, then went to unpack the new shoes and toss the boxes. They were identical black wing tips, and he took the old, worn ones and stuffed them in the bag, making a mental note to see if one of the doormen wore his size. They weren’t in bad shape, but Warren had decided that buying new shoes every year or two wasn’t too big an indulgence. Not for a big hitter like him.

Warren felt like a nominee on Oscar night. Everything seemed to take forever. He was impatient, waiting for the moment, and everyone else was just lollygagging along. The past couple of months at work had drive him crazy, even the frantic trading floor seemed to move in slow motion. Sam noticed his agitation and tried to soothe him, but he was inconsolable. She said he was getting her all worked up too and wondered if he wasn’t just trying to transfer his anxiety to her. He denied it, but had to admit she was perceptive. He wanted her tensed up. This situation had to resolve itself eventually. Two men were dead, over $200 million was sitting in a foreign bank, and there had been no closure. He couldn’t stand it. It had been over six months, and everything seemed quiet.

At the office, he told everyone how happy he was. He had a gorgeous girlfriend living with him, and they were getting along great. Sam had started taking graduate-level classes at NYU in Art History and Finance. Kerry made gagging sounds when he brought in three framed photos of Sam, including one of them together, laughing at the top of a ski run in the German Alps.

He called Frank Malloran, who had heard all about him and Larisa, and was anxious to meet Sam. Warren asked if Malloran thought that the four of them should go out sometime. Frank said he’d ask Karen, but thought it might be a little awkward for her. He was willing to try, but sisters tended to stick together, and she might still be on Larisa’s side. He told Warren that Karen had commented that it didn’t take Warren long to find someone new, and someone so pretty.

“God. It was Larisa’s doing. She was screwing some hotshot in Dallas. I’m not proud. She broke my heart.” Warren paused, his eyes hot. It was the first time he’d ever admitted this to anyone, and maybe even to himself. He preferred not to spread around that he knew about her and Anson. “Things weren’t great, but I loved that girl… uh… woman. See? I probably still do just a little. I feel sick every time I see her, even though Sam is a twelve in every way—definitely a huge trade up. Larisa may say she still loves me, or something, but, look—she’s a lot more calculating than I am. My conscience is clear, but my soul is still busted.”