Free The Buy Side by Turney Duff Page B

finger at the waitress. “Eight,” he barks. There are only four of us at the table. He levels me with a stare. “I’ll give you eight hundred dollars if you can drink all eight shots,” he says. At first I don’t know whether or not he’s kidding. I sit upright and feign confidence. “I’m serious,” he says. “Eight shots. Eight hundred. But if you puke, you lose.” The waitress places the tray with eight shot glasses filled with Patrón tequila on the table, and eight sliced lemons. “We don’t need lemons,” he says. I feel backed into a corner, like I can’t say no. It’s just shots, and I can use eight hundred dollars. “Everybody gather round,” Gary yells.
    Here I go. One shot, two shots, three, four, and five. Six fills myeyes with tears and seven makes me gag. I feel my body temperature rising. As I pick up the eighth shot, tequila drools from my lips. The crowd begins to chant—it sounds like a Rangers game. I stand and the floor moves. I steady myself and bring the shot glass to my mouth. When I fire it down, I fall back on the settee with a thud and the room erupts in laughter. Rosenbach peels off eight hundred-dollar bills from a huge wad and drops them on the floor at my feet. On my knees I gather the bills. I’m drunk.
    The next morning I’m bloodshot, battered, and humiliated. I make my way to the desk. No one seems hungover except me. I need coffee. Rosenbach sits in the kitchen. On the counter in front of him are boxes of jelly doughnuts, compliments of some broker. He rips one down the middle and stuffs half of it in his mouth and says: “I’ll give you eight hundred if you eat eight doughnuts in three minutes.”

AN EARLY evening a few months later, the office is empty except for Gary and me. I’m on the Internet trying to see how the Cleveland Indians’ spring training is going. I need to kill some time before my business dinner with CIBC. It’s at Mr. Chow’s, a trendy hangout for fashionistas, celebrities, socialites, and international food groupies, where waiters in white tuxedo jackets serve you your Peking duck. Chow’s is close to the office, so it doesn’t make sense to go home. I’m not sure why Gary is here; his limo usually picks him up right after the market closes. He calls me over to his desk and tells me to take a seat in Keryn’s chair. All of the usual tension is gone from his face. He looks almost soft. “You’ve been doing a good job lately,” he says. Getting a compliment from Gary is like having a lion say you taste good. “You know, since the Qualcomm trade,” he adds. When “the” is said before the mention of a trade, it’s either a really, really good thing or,in my case, a really, really bad thing. We’ve been so busy lately, I didn’t think he noticed how I was doing.
    “Tomorrow I want you to trade with First Boston and Goldman,” he says. “I want you to trade names in and out.” He’s reading an email on his computer as he talks. I don’t say anything. “Pick names that are liquid—you know, like Mister Softee, Intel, SunMicro.” I just recently figured out Mister Softee is Microsoft. “I want you to trade as much as you can,” he says. He starts typing an email to someone. “Try and lose as little as possible.”
    “You don’t want me to make money?” I ask.
    “Not the point,” he says as he clicks send. “I want you in and out of these names all day. Buy a hundred Intel with First Boston, wait five minutes, and then sell it with Goldman.” His cell phone rings. “Just trade back and forth all day,” he says. He clicks the talk button and tells his driver he’ll be right down. “Stick with me, Turney. I’ll make you a star.” I watch as he gets up and leaves. The whole conversation is weird: what he wants me to do, and how nice he was in telling me.
    Undoubtedly, part of Gary’s good humor is because of the business Galleon is doing. By 2000, our reputation on the Street is vicious. That happens when some of