Free The Buy Side by Turney Duff Page A

me; he wants to be my friend. He’s fun. We order food at the bar. He asks me tons of questions about the guys I work for. He wants the dirt. I’m scared to tell the truth. By the third or fourth cocktail I’m feeling more comfortable and am willing to speak more freely about Galleon. “If I make a mistake,” I say, then take a sip of my drink. “Regardless if it cost the firm money or not, they get medieval on my ass.”
    “That’s standard operating procedure,” he says as he lights up a cigarette. “Do they hit you?”
    I think he’s joking. “No.” I point at his cigarettes and ask for one with my facial expression. It’s not my first one ever, but close.
    “Look,” he says. “Are they paying you well?”
    “Yeah,” I say. “I’m not sure what my bonus is going to be, but we’re making hundreds of millions of dollars, so I’m hopeful.”
    “Then don’t worry about it,” he says.
    “I guess,” I say. I want to say more. I want to defend my point, but he makes a valid one too. If they’re going to pay me a lot of money, they can do whatever they want to me.
    “You wanna hit a strip club?” he asks as he takes his last bite of steak.
    “No thanks.” I stand up and put on my coat. The strip club fascination is lost on me. I’d rather talk to normal girls.
    After he pays the check he tells me there’s a car for me outside. I live just ten blocks away and tell him I can walk it. “What are you, Mexican?” he asks. I’m not exactly sure what being Mexican and walking have to do with each other, but I just smile and tell him I can hoof it. “No,” he insists, “take the car.” It doesn’t make any sense, but I open the car door and thank him again for the night. “We can do it every week if you want,” he says. The car is all black; the backseat feels more comfortable than my couch. I ride the ten blocks home in silence. The driver must think I’m an asshole. I feel like I should tip him or something, but I’m not sure exactly how this works. I watch the city blocks pass me. I feel like I’m in a movie. I could get used to this. When we get to my apartment the driver smiles and tells me to have a good night.
    It gets easier. Twice a week I go out with sales traders. Every time I pick the restaurant or bar we go to, and each time I get a ride home by car service. I start to enjoy these nights. I’m the client. There’s very little I can do wrong. At first I don’t understand it. Why are these guys tripping all over themselves to be my friend? Much later I realize that people on the sell side buy call options on people just like stocks.Today I might not be the head of the desk or control most of Galleon’s order flow, but it’s in their best interest to befriend me early in my career. Take care of me now, and I’ll remember you later.
    In December 1999 I attend my first Galleon holiday party. It’s held at a brightly lit restaurant in Midtown. The décor and tables are a few decades old. This place might have been cool twenty years ago. The staff looks like the cast from the movie
Cocoon
. “I’m gonna get fired,” Janine says. She planned the party and booked the talent: a mentalist. I wonder if he can read the lack of excitement in everyone’s mind. I’m sitting at a back table with Janine and Sally, Janine’s assistant, a spunky free spirit. I really like Janine and Sally. We could sit and bullshit all night. Gary approaches our table and my stomach sinks. Some people on the Street call him Rosy, for Rosenbach, but I see nothing bright or cheerful about him. He starts asking me questions: Where’d the market close today? How did Microsoft trade after the bell? How many points are the Giants giving? He doesn’t give me a chance to answer, just shouts the questions out in his high-pitched, whiny voice. He already knows all of the answers. I shift in my seat. Janine and Sally roll their eyes when he’s not looking.
    “Let’s do tequila shots,” he says. He points his