Tricks of the Trade…
I found that one of the dividends – or perils, depending on how you look at it – of working as a buy side trader is that it encouraged an
inflated sense of self. In pursuit of commissions, traders would tell me just about anything I wanted to hear. “You’re a great trader Turney.”
“Tell me more.”
But like the tech bubble or any bubble, it only took a small prick to deflate the whole thing. One of the stories I left out of the book illustrates this point. Appropriately, it happened on a Super Bowl trip:
It was February 2002, Patriots vs. Rams in New Orleans. My first big Wall Street boondoggle, I was very excited, the whole country rallied together after 9/11 and there was a patriotic feel among all New Yorkers. By February we’d started to feel a little less guilty about going back to our normal lives — we were moving forward but never forgetting.
I’ll spare you the details and cut right to Saturday afternoon. I’m walking down the hallway of my hotel when I see this guy I recognize — I know him, most Wall Streeters do. We’ll call him “Sledge.” He’s a born-and-bred New Yorker, works on the floor of the exchange and knows how to entertain. He’s a big guy, probably a power forward in the urban professional basketball league. He stops me, “Turney, I know you’re down here with another group, but we’re having an exclusive party tonight and I’d love for you to stop by,” he says. Then he hands me a business card. We part ways and I go to the vending machine and pop in a few quarters. I look at the card; it’s a restaurant or bar in the French quarter.
Sledge doesn’t have an account open with my firm, but I’m sure he’s thought about it. We’re paying the street a ton in commissions and he’d love to get a piece of that pie. Back in my room I look at the card again – it seems ordinary. My only hesitation is, I’ll have to break off from the group who brought me down here and disappear for a while. I mean, it’s not like cheating, but it probably would be considered kind of rude. I shove the card in
my pocket and nap for the rest of the afternoon.
Later, down in the lobby, I see another buy side guy, Keith, a.k.a. Kool-Keith. I convince him to come with me to the exclusive party, but to not mention it to anyone else. I decide to tell my group that I’ll be meeting some friends from the city that night and will reconnect with them after dinner. I figure if I only skip out for a few hours no one will care. We shower up, and I put on my best I-make-a-lot-of-money-so-I-dress-like-a-slob clothes and head out. But I accessorize with a black cane that has a silver bulldog head on the top. I’d broken my leg playing basketball at Reebok in November so the cane is necessary — well, at least it was needed in January, but why not stretch through the weekend.
Keith and I make our way to the general vicinity of the address, but we’re having trouble locating the entrance. We must go up and down the same block three times. Finally, a couple of guys we know come stumbling out of a black door that looks like a club. We run up and catch the door before it closes. Inside, it’s very swanky: dark curtains and wrought iron and spiral staircases that climb to a balcony. There are candles everywhere. The bars run down one side and across the back of the club. I see Sledge start to walk up to us, and he seems very happy to see me. We bullshit for a few and then he slaps
me on the back and tells me to have fun.
We need drinks. Two Patron Silvers on the rocks with three limes is a good start. Now that our drinking hands no longer feel lonely and discontent we decide to take a few laps around the place. I notice a few guys I know; most are talking to some of the twenty five to thirty women in the place. When I see the guys I know most only manage a wave or smile, some just a nod. Keith and I pull up a high top and sit down to enjoy our drinks.
Immediately, two women come up and join us; they’re hot, friendly and want to know our names. They’re from Louisiana or Florida, or someplace. Halfway through my drink, the Gator girl is rubbing my leg. “What’s your name,” she asks dreamily. What cologne am I wearing? The bar starts to fill up a little bit more and the music is louder. I look over at Keith and notice that the Miss Louisiana is just as interested in him. We both know we have a good thing going, but it’s too early to close any deals. We make our way across the bar. Maybe it’s the cane, I think. I’m not at the bar for more than a minute or two when a smoking hot girl from Texas sits next to me. Hook ‘em horns! This one thinks I’m even funnier than the last. My game has reached new levels. I can’t be stopped. I’m the man! The night keeps getting better.
A few hours later I look at the clock, I know we have to go, but does it really matter? With the skill set I’ve got tonight I can go anywhere. I grab Keith over at the bar and tell him we’ve got to go meet up with our group. It’s a hard sell, but eventually I pull him from the clutches of Trina from Tuscaloosa. We hit the dance floor running and make our way out to the hostess station. “Will you be having takeout?” the scantily clad hostess asks.
“We didn’t eat here,” I say. I smile and thank her for the night. When we get to the street I readjust my bearings to figure out if we can get a taxi. “Keith, holy shit man, we were crushing it in there,” I say. Keith smiles and nods. “I mean, we could have had our pick of women tonight.”
“Yup,” Keith says.
“I just can’t believe it, man,” I say. “It was so great. We’ve got more work to do at the next stop,” I say.
It’s 4:00 a.m.
Keith and I limp into the hotel lobby. ALONE! At least, I have my cane. “What happened man? We were doing so well at the first bar,” I say as I hit the
elevator button. “We were working it.”
“So were they,” Keith says.
“What?”
“They were all escorts,” he says as he hits his floor button. “They were paid to be there. Hookers!”
“Oh,” I say.
