Read Online Top Producer by Norb Vonnegut - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Norb Vonnegut
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funeral?”
“Decent eulogy, but I wish Monsignor Byrd had wrapped it up sooner.”
“Catholics have it easy. Just be glad you don’t sit shivah. That’s seven days.”
He chuckled. I didn’t. We both had better things to do than make small talk and listen to me bitch about a Catholic priest. New ideas swept through the trading floors during morning hours, the busiest time of day. Cliff had broken from his daily grind, however, to check on me.
“Do you need to be in the office?” he ventured.
“It’s the best thing.” I knew what he meant. A good friend, he sensed something amiss. “Trust me.”
“Something wrong?”
“It shows?”
“Yeah.”
“The New York Post just called. They’re researching a feature on Charlie Kelemen.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“Nothing. I just hit the transfer button to our PR department.”
“Good answer,” he said. “But you knew it was only a matter of time before the press called.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Have you spoken with the police yet?” Halek continued.
“A detective named Michael Fitzsimmons called Wednesday. I left a message for him late last night.”
“Glad to see your sense of urgency,” Halek chided playfully.
“NYPD.” I paused. “One-hundred-million-dollar guy.” I paused. “You make the call.” It was hardly a close play at second. There had been plenty of time to phone Fitzsimmons. The reality: After the funeral I was in no shape to handle a discussion about Charlie with anyone.
“I bet NYPD has a mile-long list of questions for you.”
“What’s to tell? Charlie was a stand-up guy. Whoever tied the cart to his leg was a sick fuck.”
“You may know that sick fuck.”
“I doubt it. His friends loved him.”
“Somebody didn’t.”
“Tell me what you think about the market,” I said, flipping into work mode, avoiding Cliff’s rock-solid logic.
“Oil prices are spooking the hedge funds,” he replied. “The hedgies are convinced the Dow will correct ten percent, and they’re asking my desk to lever the short trades.”
By “lever,” Halek meant “magnify.” The D-boys could invent products that lost 20 percent of their market values if the markets fell 10 percent. The shorts would be thrilled because they made money in collapsing markets.
“Good info, Cliff.” His insights always made me better on the phone. “My guys will be lining up for bonds.”
“Ah, security.”
There is no such thing as the “securities industry.” The term is oxymoronic, emphasis on “moronic.” There is only pace, the rush for money and the frenzy of combatants, the distractions from memories eighteen months old.
Wall Street is all about angst. My contemporaries fear everything. We fear the loss of clients. It happens all too often. We fear that others have better information. Somebody wants to sell what we want to buy. We fear the Securities and Exchange Commission and the other regulators who govern us. We fear risk. But we fear running in the middle of the pack even more. So we take risks. We fear our wagers will look stupid and talking heads will expose our follies within seconds. Wall Street may be about “swag,” the best word I have ever heard for money. It may be about ego and hormones and the glory of betting big and being right. But it is fear that makes us who we are. I worry about my clients and pray they never succumb to our schizoid mind-set.
Fear is one thing. Greed is another. Everybody has an agenda. There are no exceptions.
Patty Gershon stopped by my desk around ten A.M. When she used my first name, I knew something was up.
“Grove,” she said, “I came to apologize.”
Chloe whipped around from her terminal to face us. Annie, her blue-green eyes wide from disbelief, studied Patty suspiciously.
“For what?” I asked.
“Those bait jokes. I’m such an ass.
“Decent eulogy, but I wish Monsignor Byrd had wrapped it up sooner.”
“Catholics have it easy. Just be glad you don’t sit shivah. That’s seven days.”
He chuckled. I didn’t. We both had better things to do than make small talk and listen to me bitch about a Catholic priest. New ideas swept through the trading floors during morning hours, the busiest time of day. Cliff had broken from his daily grind, however, to check on me.
“Do you need to be in the office?” he ventured.
“It’s the best thing.” I knew what he meant. A good friend, he sensed something amiss. “Trust me.”
“Something wrong?”
“It shows?”
“Yeah.”
“The New York Post just called. They’re researching a feature on Charlie Kelemen.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“Nothing. I just hit the transfer button to our PR department.”
“Good answer,” he said. “But you knew it was only a matter of time before the press called.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Have you spoken with the police yet?” Halek continued.
“A detective named Michael Fitzsimmons called Wednesday. I left a message for him late last night.”
“Glad to see your sense of urgency,” Halek chided playfully.
“NYPD.” I paused. “One-hundred-million-dollar guy.” I paused. “You make the call.” It was hardly a close play at second. There had been plenty of time to phone Fitzsimmons. The reality: After the funeral I was in no shape to handle a discussion about Charlie with anyone.
“I bet NYPD has a mile-long list of questions for you.”
“What’s to tell? Charlie was a stand-up guy. Whoever tied the cart to his leg was a sick fuck.”
“You may know that sick fuck.”
“I doubt it. His friends loved him.”
“Somebody didn’t.”
“Tell me what you think about the market,” I said, flipping into work mode, avoiding Cliff’s rock-solid logic.
“Oil prices are spooking the hedge funds,” he replied. “The hedgies are convinced the Dow will correct ten percent, and they’re asking my desk to lever the short trades.”
By “lever,” Halek meant “magnify.” The D-boys could invent products that lost 20 percent of their market values if the markets fell 10 percent. The shorts would be thrilled because they made money in collapsing markets.
“Good info, Cliff.” His insights always made me better on the phone. “My guys will be lining up for bonds.”
“Ah, security.”
There is no such thing as the “securities industry.” The term is oxymoronic, emphasis on “moronic.” There is only pace, the rush for money and the frenzy of combatants, the distractions from memories eighteen months old.
Wall Street is all about angst. My contemporaries fear everything. We fear the loss of clients. It happens all too often. We fear that others have better information. Somebody wants to sell what we want to buy. We fear the Securities and Exchange Commission and the other regulators who govern us. We fear risk. But we fear running in the middle of the pack even more. So we take risks. We fear our wagers will look stupid and talking heads will expose our follies within seconds. Wall Street may be about “swag,” the best word I have ever heard for money. It may be about ego and hormones and the glory of betting big and being right. But it is fear that makes us who we are. I worry about my clients and pray they never succumb to our schizoid mind-set.
Fear is one thing. Greed is another. Everybody has an agenda. There are no exceptions.
Patty Gershon stopped by my desk around ten A.M. When she used my first name, I knew something was up.
“Grove,” she said, “I came to apologize.”
Chloe whipped around from her terminal to face us. Annie, her blue-green eyes wide from disbelief, studied Patty suspiciously.
“For what?” I asked.
“Those bait jokes. I’m such an ass.
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