Free On the Floor by Aifric Campbell Page A

on himself. For six months now Rob’s been on a roll in convertibles, a lucrative exotic that very few people truly understand and a market that Felix adores since it is imperfect and therefore awash with opportunity.
    An instrument of rare beauty, traded by fools who have no idea how to value. So I buy them too cheaply from Merrill’s, Goldman’s, Morgan Stanley. And even from Steiner’s
. Felix has been the convertibles king for five years, making a killing out of these quirky little creatures that can generate vast returns.
Always pay attention to the activity at the margins, Geraldine, it is the peripheral vision that reveals the real treasure. Look at the ripples, there is so much value at the fringes
. He tapped his temple.
Shall I tell you why my returns are vastly superior to those of my so-called competitors in the investment community? I’ve always had a soft spot for the undervalued. The misunderstood, underappreciated, unloved asset class, a rich complexity of the hybrid that can only be truly appreciated by those with a more sophisticated palate. Those with a natural curiosity for the unusual. Like fine wines from small vineyards. You can pick them up for a song. The convertible bond is a financial hermaphrodite – outcast and frequently ignored. And I am a connoisseur of the neglected. For in the backwater lies the gem. Much like yourself, my dear
.
    This is the kid of creepiness that Felix likes to taunt me with, his thin grey lips screwed into what looks like a leer but is actually the closest he gets to a smile.
    â€˜So, Geri,’ Rob perks up, suddenly enlivened. ‘How ’bout you work some of your sales magic? How ’bout you show Bud Light a real big hitterin action?’ Rob jerks his thumb at the brown-haired boy who stands beside him like a gundog in attentive observance. Bud Light is one of the interns we ship in from Columbia, Harvard, INSEAD or even down the road from the LSE, although the American grads like Bud usually wipe the floor with local talent. He is back under Rob’s wing after a brief sojourn in Operations to complete his study of the life cycle of a trade. Rob is an effective teacher who does not provide false shelter from the storms they will meet. He makes the grads run tickets at full tilt to the back office because he believes an early lesson in urgency will make them appreciate the danger of getting things wrong. They listen wide-eyed to his horror stories about lost trade tickets, little slips of pink or blue paper that can mysteriously disappear in the Bermuda triangle: the fifty-foot ocean between a trading floor and the Ops is the most treacherous water where a five million dollar trade can vanish in the ether.
    â€˜Come on, G, show Bud here how it’s done.’ Rob rubs his palms, elbows Bud, who nods eagerly.
    â€˜What you
really
mean, Rob, is you want me to find a nice tame client and stuff him into a landfill. So you can dump your shit position in Claxin Falls and save your ass from the Grope who wants to know why you bought such a dog in the first place. Am I right?’
    â€˜She’s all heart, our Geri,’ Rob grins. Bud Light follows this exchange like it’s a tennis match. His real name has been erased from my memory since Rob’s christening after he survived the acid test of a night’s drinking and resurfaced on time the following morning only to puke up in the waste bin. Trainee survival odds lengthen dramatically when you are awarded a nickname, but Bud Light does not know this yet. Still, he has stayed the course with sturdy good humour, is happy to start at the bottom of the food chain and seems to embrace the challenge of moving from overhead to asset and understand that success is entirely his responsibility, that nothing comes to those who sit and wait. You must therefore get the coffees in or make yourself useful while simultaneously remaining invisible and exhibiting a murderous keenness.