next referral on it. Nothing happens today after four P.M. Mark my words.”
“Done,” Frank bellowed with confidence. “If you’re right, you get the next I-banking lead.” Banker referrals made it easy to meet wealthy executives who had sold their companies or taken them public. Warm introductions could make a broker’s career at SKC. “Now, what’s on your mind, Grove?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“May I swing by your office, Frank?”
Sam Kelemen was on my mind. The day had slowed. The markets had lost their chaotic urgency as money people switched from price-earnings ratios to weekend plans. And I needed to discuss a few things about my best friend’s widow.
Kurtz, I hoped, would offer guidance. Not about time management. He was the Monthly Nut after all. He reminded me of the tidal-creek catfish from my youth, all mouth and no brains.
But Frank had worked with all sorts of stockbrokers for twenty-plus years. He had seen everything, run into the train wrecks that turned the press yellow. He had survived. That’s 90 percent of the game. I knew how to investigate the Kelemen Group. I hoped Frank could show me where to look for Sam’s missing accounts. Top producer or not, I had no idea where to start.
Like sales managers at all brokerage firms, Frank Kurtz served as a cheerleader. His job was to build revenues. Kurtz also functioned as top cop, the first defense against churning, unauthorized trading, or similar transgressions. He ensured his stockbrokers adhered to the SEC, NASD, CBOE,NFA, and CFTC, not to mention all fifty state regulators like the BSR in New Hampshire or the DOJ in Delaware—the latter not to be confused with the federal Department of Justice. Taken together these governing bodies equaled NFW, the acronym for No Fucking Way Wall Street could trade in peace.
Frank’s dual roles required the wisdom of Solomon. If he was too strict, revenues would dry up and salespeople would bitch to our CEO. If he was too lenient, we would read about the fallout in The Wall Street Journal. The media always reserved space for sensational stories about rogue brokers and their dupes. Either way, Frank Kurtz’s job was on the line.
Frank’s office juxtaposed good and evil. There was a papal blessing on one wall. It vaguely resembled a diploma, except for the autographed head shot of Pope John Paul Umpteen mounted within the frame. Though the pope epitomized everything good, his photo regularly evoked the worst in Frank and me. We debated who had been the altar boy from hell and compared childhood stories about torquing off nuns or chugging wine when the priests weren’t looking. As fellow Catholics we sanctioned each other’s irreverence, past, present, and presumably the future. And that was the good wall.
On the wall behind Frank’s desk hung a collection of celebrity photos: Frank shaking hands with Andrew Fastow, Frank clinking wineglasses with Bernie Ebbers, and Frank sharing cigars with Dennis Kozlowski. The gallery, a murderer’s row of financial corruption, reminded PCS advisers how quickly fortunes change. The photos perplexed us. We wondered if our boss was a human divining rod for Wall Street’s miscreants.
Frank rifled his thinning black hair, a comb-over on the come, and scratched the nape of his neck. “You’re sure about Patty?” he asked, his tanned face a mass of furrows and other calling cards from life on Wall Street.
For a moment I appraised Kurtz carefully, steadily. With a flat palm facing him, I waved my hand through the air. The motion was slow and circular, almost theatrical. “Relax, Frank.”
“What the hell was that?”
“Jedi mind trick,” I said. “Gershon’s not going anywhere.”
Frank sighed, ready to move on but still not convinced. “Do you want acigar?” he asked, opening his humidor to display dozens of
“Done,” Frank bellowed with confidence. “If you’re right, you get the next I-banking lead.” Banker referrals made it easy to meet wealthy executives who had sold their companies or taken them public. Warm introductions could make a broker’s career at SKC. “Now, what’s on your mind, Grove?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“May I swing by your office, Frank?”
Sam Kelemen was on my mind. The day had slowed. The markets had lost their chaotic urgency as money people switched from price-earnings ratios to weekend plans. And I needed to discuss a few things about my best friend’s widow.
Kurtz, I hoped, would offer guidance. Not about time management. He was the Monthly Nut after all. He reminded me of the tidal-creek catfish from my youth, all mouth and no brains.
But Frank had worked with all sorts of stockbrokers for twenty-plus years. He had seen everything, run into the train wrecks that turned the press yellow. He had survived. That’s 90 percent of the game. I knew how to investigate the Kelemen Group. I hoped Frank could show me where to look for Sam’s missing accounts. Top producer or not, I had no idea where to start.
Like sales managers at all brokerage firms, Frank Kurtz served as a cheerleader. His job was to build revenues. Kurtz also functioned as top cop, the first defense against churning, unauthorized trading, or similar transgressions. He ensured his stockbrokers adhered to the SEC, NASD, CBOE,NFA, and CFTC, not to mention all fifty state regulators like the BSR in New Hampshire or the DOJ in Delaware—the latter not to be confused with the federal Department of Justice. Taken together these governing bodies equaled NFW, the acronym for No Fucking Way Wall Street could trade in peace.
Frank’s dual roles required the wisdom of Solomon. If he was too strict, revenues would dry up and salespeople would bitch to our CEO. If he was too lenient, we would read about the fallout in The Wall Street Journal. The media always reserved space for sensational stories about rogue brokers and their dupes. Either way, Frank Kurtz’s job was on the line.
Frank’s office juxtaposed good and evil. There was a papal blessing on one wall. It vaguely resembled a diploma, except for the autographed head shot of Pope John Paul Umpteen mounted within the frame. Though the pope epitomized everything good, his photo regularly evoked the worst in Frank and me. We debated who had been the altar boy from hell and compared childhood stories about torquing off nuns or chugging wine when the priests weren’t looking. As fellow Catholics we sanctioned each other’s irreverence, past, present, and presumably the future. And that was the good wall.
On the wall behind Frank’s desk hung a collection of celebrity photos: Frank shaking hands with Andrew Fastow, Frank clinking wineglasses with Bernie Ebbers, and Frank sharing cigars with Dennis Kozlowski. The gallery, a murderer’s row of financial corruption, reminded PCS advisers how quickly fortunes change. The photos perplexed us. We wondered if our boss was a human divining rod for Wall Street’s miscreants.
Frank rifled his thinning black hair, a comb-over on the come, and scratched the nape of his neck. “You’re sure about Patty?” he asked, his tanned face a mass of furrows and other calling cards from life on Wall Street.
For a moment I appraised Kurtz carefully, steadily. With a flat palm facing him, I waved my hand through the air. The motion was slow and circular, almost theatrical. “Relax, Frank.”
“What the hell was that?”
“Jedi mind trick,” I said. “Gershon’s not going anywhere.”
Frank sighed, ready to move on but still not convinced. “Do you want acigar?” he asked, opening his humidor to display dozens of
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