times earnings but growing ten percent annually. Overpriced in my book.”
“Should I sell?”
Me: “Let’s move fifteen thousand shares today. That leaves us with thirty thousand. We’ll still be thrilled if it continues to run.”
“What’s this stock trading at?”
“How about that one?” And so on. The level of activity was unusual, and I found myself buried deep inside the securities business.
Wall Street generally yawns on Fridays during the summer. Clients disappear. The most powerful money managers board helicopters in the morning and retreat to the Hamptons, where the square footage of their palatial estates grows faster than the portfolios they manage.
For almost everyone else, lunch serves as the starting gun to bolt and beat the weekend traffic. Traders and brokers, the rank and file of the capital markets, abandon their Aeron chairs and proprietary trading screens for weekends at the Jersey Shore or other retreats. It’s a wonder their pell-mell breaks for the elevators don’t produce more casualties.
Upon occasion, resignations break up the Friday ennui. Brokers resign on the last day of the week. Competing firms offer fat checks for advisers to leave and take clients with them. The payments can be huge, as much as two times total fees and commissions over the last twelve months.
“Remember all the good things I said about my old firm? All the stuff about great money managers and outstanding trade executions? I was wrong. The old firm sucks. Can’t compete with the new shop. Trust me.”
It’s a tough sales pitch.
So what. For the right amount of money, some brokers will say anything.Those knuckleheads trace their genealogical roots back to the world’s oldest profession. They’re “in the life,” as streetwalkers say. Those brokers give guys like me a bad name.
Parade-like pageantry, however modest, accompanies every resignation. Security guards, wearing metal name tags fixed to their uniforms, escort departing brokers to the front door. The brokers wave to their friends, who are now competitors. Like conquering heroes, the defectors gloat over the seven-figure paychecks waiting across the street.
The currently loyal salespeople stop what they are doing and gawk, wide-eyed, silent, and hungry for more money, more assets, and more recognition. They wonder if their bosses will favor them with a few juicy accounts to defend.
True to form, the early frenzy of that Friday dissipated. A spokesman for Nigeria denied any rift with OPEC or increase in his country’s production. Oil prices recovered. The market sold off 60 points from the early highs. PCS advisers began to leave.
By one P.M. I had returned all client calls and cleared the Post-its from my desk. No word from Detective Fitzsimmons. That was just as well. Unfortunately, the receptionist took a message when I dialed Charlie’s auditors.
Accountants like early weekends, too, I reminded myself. I should have phoned Crain and Cravath sooner.
My in-box required immediate attention. It had become a towering stockpile of M-bombs: management memos about compliance changes, sign-up sheets for management outings, personnel changes affecting management org charts, and sales productivity articles circulated by management. The requests for information never ceased.
“Who are your top ten clients?”
“Are you on the verge of winning any new business?”
“How can you increase revenues ten percent, twenty percent, or more?”
The paperwork was one fucking nightmare. Rather than fill in the blanks, I opted to send a headache back to my boss. Why empower dysfunctional corporate behavior? “Annie, do me a favor,” I whispered.
She leaned forward, all ears, that conspiratorial smile.
“Spread the word I have ten dollars on Patty Gershon resigning this afternoon.” It was Friday after all, the traditional day for changing shops.
A gung-ho
“Should I sell?”
Me: “Let’s move fifteen thousand shares today. That leaves us with thirty thousand. We’ll still be thrilled if it continues to run.”
“What’s this stock trading at?”
“How about that one?” And so on. The level of activity was unusual, and I found myself buried deep inside the securities business.
Wall Street generally yawns on Fridays during the summer. Clients disappear. The most powerful money managers board helicopters in the morning and retreat to the Hamptons, where the square footage of their palatial estates grows faster than the portfolios they manage.
For almost everyone else, lunch serves as the starting gun to bolt and beat the weekend traffic. Traders and brokers, the rank and file of the capital markets, abandon their Aeron chairs and proprietary trading screens for weekends at the Jersey Shore or other retreats. It’s a wonder their pell-mell breaks for the elevators don’t produce more casualties.
Upon occasion, resignations break up the Friday ennui. Brokers resign on the last day of the week. Competing firms offer fat checks for advisers to leave and take clients with them. The payments can be huge, as much as two times total fees and commissions over the last twelve months.
“Remember all the good things I said about my old firm? All the stuff about great money managers and outstanding trade executions? I was wrong. The old firm sucks. Can’t compete with the new shop. Trust me.”
It’s a tough sales pitch.
So what. For the right amount of money, some brokers will say anything.Those knuckleheads trace their genealogical roots back to the world’s oldest profession. They’re “in the life,” as streetwalkers say. Those brokers give guys like me a bad name.
Parade-like pageantry, however modest, accompanies every resignation. Security guards, wearing metal name tags fixed to their uniforms, escort departing brokers to the front door. The brokers wave to their friends, who are now competitors. Like conquering heroes, the defectors gloat over the seven-figure paychecks waiting across the street.
The currently loyal salespeople stop what they are doing and gawk, wide-eyed, silent, and hungry for more money, more assets, and more recognition. They wonder if their bosses will favor them with a few juicy accounts to defend.
True to form, the early frenzy of that Friday dissipated. A spokesman for Nigeria denied any rift with OPEC or increase in his country’s production. Oil prices recovered. The market sold off 60 points from the early highs. PCS advisers began to leave.
By one P.M. I had returned all client calls and cleared the Post-its from my desk. No word from Detective Fitzsimmons. That was just as well. Unfortunately, the receptionist took a message when I dialed Charlie’s auditors.
Accountants like early weekends, too, I reminded myself. I should have phoned Crain and Cravath sooner.
My in-box required immediate attention. It had become a towering stockpile of M-bombs: management memos about compliance changes, sign-up sheets for management outings, personnel changes affecting management org charts, and sales productivity articles circulated by management. The requests for information never ceased.
“Who are your top ten clients?”
“Are you on the verge of winning any new business?”
“How can you increase revenues ten percent, twenty percent, or more?”
The paperwork was one fucking nightmare. Rather than fill in the blanks, I opted to send a headache back to my boss. Why empower dysfunctional corporate behavior? “Annie, do me a favor,” I whispered.
She leaned forward, all ears, that conspiratorial smile.
“Spread the word I have ten dollars on Patty Gershon resigning this afternoon.” It was Friday after all, the traditional day for changing shops.
A gung-ho
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