Free Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street by Mike Offit Page A

and a few financial futures through a friend who is a member of the Chicago Board of Trade—”
    “Financial futures? Let me tell you, Wonderfuck, you don’t know fuck-all about financial futures. Did you know that I created half of the fucking futures contracts? Did you know that? I hate guys like you. Fucking locals. Scalpers.” Pike was pacing again, his voice heavily laced with disgust and anger. “We eat guys like you for fucking lunch. Man, Weldon could just fucking crush you like dust if it wanted to, did you know that, you fucking Wonderputz? A bunch of fucking parasites.” Pike seemed ready to pop a blood clot. Warren was nervous for real, beginning to wonder if this was just a “stress” interview, which the placement office had prepared him for, or if Pike actually didn’t like him for some reason.
    “Um, Mr. Pike, I didn’t mean to suggest that I could compete with Weldon.… I haven’t traded anything for almost two years.” Warren could see no other option but to be almost submissive.
    “Yeah, and if you were ever to work at Weldon, you might never trade anything again. We tell you if you sell or trade or wash windows, we tell you when you have to go to the bathroom. You fuckwads think you know it all. You know jack shit. Jack fucking shit.” Pike finished his soliloquy by plopping down in his chair, behind the desk, in front of the screens.
    “Yessir.” Warren blended the words on purpose. Pike had just said “if you were ever to work at Weldon.” That wasn’t the kind of thing you said to someone you didn’t think had a chance. Warren decided to play along and be superhumble. “And that’s exactly why someone like me would consider it a great opportunity to work at Weldon. For the chance to work with experienced pros like you, guys who’ve been through it all and are at the top. Where hard work and some guts might pay off.”
    “Ho-ho-ho, Mr. Warren Hament. Brown fucking University. I like it. ‘Experienced pros?’ You making a little fun with me, asshole? Very nice, scumbag. I like it. Now get the fuck out of my office.” Pike turned his back on Warren.
    Warren took a second to figure out how to respond. He just went with it. “Might you tell me where I could find Mr. Dressler?” Carl Dressler, head of mortgages, was the next name on the list. Warren would be ten minutes early. Pike had been playing with him—the Cornell “mistake” was some kind of test.
    “Out there. Call that fat little faggot Polack. He’s your nursemaid, isn’t he?” Pike pointed toward the trading floor.
    “Thanks. Nice to meet you.” Warren was soaked with sweat, but had the sense that Pike liked to see how potential hires stood up under the abuse.
    Pike flashed him a grin. “The pleasure was all mine, son. Close the door, wouldya?”
    Warren stood outside the office for a moment to regroup. The onslaught of crudeness, vulgarity, hostility, and bigotry was not what he had expected, even in a stress interview, but he felt he’d done okay. Being around the crudeness of the commodities exchange had built up some immunity, but the relative peace and decency at Columbia had made it a bit of a shock.
    He headed back toward the reception desk, where he asked for Symanski. The receptionist handed him the phone.
    “Did you love him, big guy? Was he great?” Symanski was obviously eating, his words muffled.
    “Terrific. It was a lovefest. Thanks for the tip. What should I do now? Go see Dressler or just hang myself in the bathroom?” Warren was trying to adopt the collegial tone. “You free to bring me over?”
    “Save that for later. Carl’s on the floor. I see him from here. Wait. I’ll get him. Meet us in the office two down from Pike’s. Just wait there.”
    Warren hung up and backtracked. As he passed Pike’s office again, he saw him putting at the distant sofa leg and noticed a collection of balls, all five feet or more short, and all left. He went into the open office down two