by John LeFevre
“Too right, mate. I’m not a fookin’ id-i-ut.”
I immediately start firing off Bloomberg messages to some syndicate and sales colleagues and friends, as well as to a few clients—all of whom are well aware of the running joke that is Dirty Sanchez. “It’s confirmed. Filthy has a filthy solo Fennie’s game.” The problem is that without definitive proof, there is still this lingering doubt. A close friend and former colleague turned competitor proposes a solution: a stakeout.
The chances of success seem slim—the plan is to camp out the next time he’s in town and try to catch him in the act—but regardless of the outcome, we’re going to have some fun trying.
A couple of weeks go by, and there’s been no sign of Filthy in the office. Finally, I call his secretary. “Hey, Debbie. Listen, I want to take [Filthy] to see a few key clients.” (He insists on only seeing “top-priority clients.”) “Can you check his diary and let me know when he’s back in Hong Kong?”
I report back: “Okay, next Wednesday, Filthy’s in town, but only for one night. He’s got a client dinner, so it’s gonna be tight. But I’m willing to give it a shot if you guys are.” Of course, everyone is up for it.
There’s a Mexican place across the street from Fenwick’s—the perfect vantage point. We plan on getting there around ten o’clock just to be safe, which means we meet up in Central at six in order to start drinking.
Most of us don’t actually expect to see him there; it’s just a funny premise and a silly excuse for a group of us to get together and drink. One of our friends at Credit Suisse is paying 12-to-1 on a Filthy sighting; I go in for $100, but it’s not a bet I’m expecting to win. There are a few other side bets that involve Tommy Bahama shirts (his signature look at management off-sites) and cigars.
The big day finally arrives. There are eight of us, with representation from JPMorgan, Credit Suisse, Deutsche Bank, Citi, and a couple of buy-side clients. Irrespective of Filthy, this is an amazing idea—a group of friends sitting outside in the heart of the red-light district, people-watching and burning through pitchers of Patrón margaritas as quickly as they can make them.
Ten o’clock might have been a bit too ambitious of a start because there is no sign of Filthy and a few us are already pretty hammered. Eleven p.m. and still no Filthy; surely his client dinner is over by now. I check in with a friend of mine across town at Bar George in Lan Kwai Fong, a notorious Filthy hangout; he’s not there, which bodes well for us. Just to make sure we haven’t missed him, we take turns making solo recon trips—running into Fenwick’s and doing a quick lap around the bar. Some of us take longer than others.
At midnight, we run into some guys we know from Barclays and HSBC. One of our junior hedge fund sales guys, Smithers, gets scared. “Dude, that guy’s wife is friends with my wife. I told her I was at Cipriani with my boss tonight.” It would be impossible for a person to look and act any more like the Simpsons character than he does.
“Don’t be a bitch. He’s not going to say anything. What’s he gonna say, ‘Hey, I saw your husband in Wan Chai’? He’s here too.”
At one o’clock, Smithers and two other guys give up. I double down with another $100, this time at 15-to-1. While it would be nice to win some cash, I don’t really care if Filthy shows up or not; it’s fascinating watching the different types of people who go in and out of Fenwick’s: young, old, skinny, fat, handsome, ugly, rich, poor. Some guys walk in only to come back out immediately with a look of total shock and disgust on their faces. Other guys walk out unashamedly with a girl under each arm. Others are sheepish and cautious, holding hands like they’re on a first date. Some people are so drunk that they stagger out using a hooker like a seeing-eye dog. I can only assume that she is taking them to the nearest ATM—good for her.
Don’t get me wrong; I see this all the time. But tonight, with our eyes vigilantly glued to the door, it becomes more of a case study in human behavior, with each of us providing commentary, play-by-play analysis, and drunken theories on the exploitation and dehumanization of sex workers.
Just before 2 a.m., our numbers have dwindled down to four guys. We’ve long since made the necessary switch to beer just for the sake of our own survival. Losing focus and interest, we’re just about ready to pack it in when we spot a shadowy figure slowly getting out of a taxi.
Holy shit, it’s him. The Tommy Bahama shirt and cigar confirm it. Lester just scored $5,000 and I have a decent payday coming my way as well.
Hours of dedication have paid off. Laughter, high fives, and table slapping ensues. Filthy is proceeding cautiously, looking around and over his shoulder as he is forced to yield to a drunken gweilo and his plus one who are angling for Filthy’s taxi. This is when he spots us; a clear, uninterrupted line of sight to four drunken bankers, celebrating and jumping around like buffoons. Instinctively, he looks away, clearly contemplating what to do. But there is nothing that he can do; he’s been busted and he knows it.
He nods in acknowledgment and heads our way, weaving through the other two lanes of oncoming traffic. He greets us like a dog that just shit in your living room and knows it’s only a matter of time before you discover it. “You guys got me, huh?” He takes a seat at our table. “So, what are we drinking?” We flag down the waitress and order another round of beers.
We never fess up to the stakeout, simply chalking it up to a coincidence, but he has a suspicion we’re here for him. Mission fucking accomplished; it’s time for me to head home.
“Okay, guys, I’m out. I need to be up in four hours.” I chug my beer and signal the waitress for our check.
“Don’t worry, this one’s on me.” Filthy inspects the bill. “Wow, I see you guys have been here for a while,” and then he slaps down a card. I’m almost positive he uses the corporate card.
We all walk across to the taxi stand and join the queue of johns with their takeout. One of our friends is married and his wife has been blowing up his phone, so we let him take the first cab. The remaining three of us all live right near one another, so we agree to share a taxi back up to the Mid-Levels.
After a few minutes, the next cab approaches. Filthy graciously offers to let us take this one. “There are three of you; you guys go ahead. I’ll get the next one.” As we drive away, we crane our necks around to see Filthy doubling back across the street and heading into Fenwick’s.
Princelings
and Dumplings
“Hey, dude, are you coming down to Singapore later this week?” I say to Justin, the new first-year analyst rotating through our desk.
“I don’t think so. They told me that it’s already over budget, there’s nothing of value I can do while I am there, and that I need to stick around here to man the desk.”
“Okay. Just have Connie book you a flight and a hotel room anyway, and I’ll sort out the rest for you.”
It’s our annual credit conference—the largest in Asia: four hundred investors; fifty bond issuers; three days of presentations, workshops, and meetings; and three blurry nights of total debauchery. It’s a boondoggle for most people, but for me, an event of this magnitude designed to bring investors and issuers together is right in my wheelhouse. I’m supposed to take it very seriously.
I usually go down a couple of days early and kick off an entire week of meetings, pitches, golf outings, and drinking with clients. I also get to play host to the countless colleagues and senior management who fly in from London and New York and, having heard the stories about what bankers get up to in Asia, are here to have a good time. Wedding rings are optional.
My problem this year is that I am in the middle of executing two live deals, one for a Korean utility and the other for an Indian bank, which means much of my time is spent sitting in the Ritz-Carlton lobby or upstairs in my room, stuck on tedious internal and client conference calls. My entire week is shaping up to be an endless stream of these calls, mostly listening on mute as banker
s from the various bookrunners take turns fluffing the client and saying the same things over and over.
I call Justin’s staffer—the half-wit in charge of overseeing the pool of new analysts who rotate around fixed income for six months before finding a permanent seat on a desk. I make up some shit about how I need an analyst to help me coordinate the schedule of investor and issuer meetings, and explain how it’s good exposure for Justin to shadow me for a few days.
I remember the feeling of being the only analyst chosen to attend conferences in Lisbon and Madrid. Now it’s time for me to pay it forward. I could pick any one of the new analysts to come down and help me, including the hot Taiwanese chick who likes to party, but I choose Justin because he has a very specific skill set.
I call Justin back. “You’re all set. You can come down tomorrow and hang out for the rest of the week. But I need you to do one thing first. Go to my apartment, pack up my PlayStation with Madden and FIFA, and bring it with you.” Principally, I am having Justin fly down to play PlayStation with me.
“EASports . . . It’s in the game. Hell yeah, baby.” I can tell he’s excited.
We spend the next three days holed up in my room, shades drawn, beer bottles everywhere, DO NOT DISTURB sign strictly enforced—with only fleeting, yet highly strategic, appearances at the conference. The only thing most people see is me pacing around, looking tired and stressed, barking into an earpiece. Am I hungover? Yes, of course. Is the burden of balancing a hectic schedule of investor meetings, networking with senior management, and executing multiple live deals weighing me down? Perhaps. Am I still seen as taking the time to selflessly mentor a junior banker, taking him under my wing, showing him the ropes, and introducing him to as many people as possible? Fucking right; he’s almost out of business cards. Although, in reality, to the extent that I appear frazzled and stressed out, it’s because I am struggling to contain Justin’s shotgun Philadelphia Eagles offense with my Swiss cheese Dallas Cowboys defense.
Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra is downstairs giving a keynote address; who gives a shit? I just hit Terrell Owens on a play-action deep post route to win the game and $500. I’ve got no problem taking money from my first-year analyst; his family is loaded.
After five consecutive hours of intensely competitive football (the first game kicked off with my 9 a.m. Korean client market update call), we decide to celebrate down at the bar by the pool. Venturing outside feels like walking out of a movie theater on a hot sunny day, having forgotten that it’s the middle of the afternoon.
The conference is business casual, but of course, we’re in suits. Our fake message is clear: we are obviously just coming from an important meeting. We loosen our ties, roll up our sleeves, and order a round of beers.
“See, dude? Aren’t you glad I picked you? Right now, all of your peers are stuck in the office doing dogshit work, running on fumes, and you’re here with me, sitting under a fucking palm tree with a beer in your hand.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He gives me this big goofy Malaysian grin. “Cheers.”
I look across and point out all those suckers in the hotel gym (which at the Singapore Ritz-Carlton overlooks the pool), pounding away on the treadmills. Immediately, we both make direct and unavoidable eye contact with my boss, the head of fixed income. Not only is he one of those “suckers” on a treadmill, but he is famous for his no-nonsense intensity—and for his ability to maintain a seven-minute-mile pace while typing on his BlackBerry.
He acknowledges us a with a purse-lipped, sarcastic slow nod, without breaking his stride. There is probably nothing worse that we could be seen doing right now. We’re not working. We’re not attending the conference. We’re not entertaining clients. The cardinal sin of any boondoggle is cliquing together and fraternizing without actual clients. Here we are drinking beers for no justifiable reason at two o’clock in the afternoon.
I don’t really give a shit. I’m executing two lucrative deals this week, while still being the life of the party at the evening festivities and always the first one to appear at the morning breakfasts, staying just long enough to get noticed, principally by him.
I do feel bad for Justin; I’m the one who dragged him out for beers in the middle of a conference, in the middle of the afternoon. There’s no scenario in which he comes out looking good. But then I remember that he’s untouchable. A Princeling.
Princelings, or as we affectionately call them, Dumplings, are the children of regional tycoons, captains of industry, and government officials. Of course, we’re no strangers to nepotism. We all understand and expect that Chelsea Clinton can walk into a job at McKinsey or at Marc Lasry’s hedge fund. But in Asia, it has increasingly become the rule and not the exception. All banks hire a disproportionate number of Princelings, and not just the ones who graduated from Stanford or Harvard, with the implicit expectation that it comes with benefits in the form of business from their influential families.
When I started as an analyst, all the hiring was centralized through New York so that the firm could control and maintain a consistent and high standard of talent. We all trained together in New York, along with the European and Asian analysts. With this came a fair degree of mobility, such that if someone wanted to move to Asia from the US, or to the US from Europe or Asia, there were opportunities, particularly at the junior level—which of course is what enabled me to work in London and Hong Kong with relative ease.
When I first got to Hong Kong in 2004, the hiring protocols were more or less the same as when I had started. We’d get friends or clients asking us to help them out with internships or analyst positions for their kids or relatives, and we’d simply pass them on to New York with a kind word and a nudge for special consideration that we knew would typically go ignored. New York didn’t give a shit at all. They didn’t want or need to do us, or our clients, any favors; Asia was still a rounding error in terms of revenue for most of the larger global banks.
But by 2006, everything had changed. We started recruiting many of the new analysts for Asia from the pool of résumés that were sent in to the private bank by their ultra-high-net-worth clients looking for favors. JPMorgan, Goldman Sachs, HSBC, UBS, Morgan Stanley, and most other firms would do the same thing through their respective private wealth management divisions. It became the running joke any time one of our counterparts at another bank brought a new analyst to a meeting or roadshow luncheon. “So, who is his [or her] father?” was the first question, unless she was hot, then it was “Is she single?”
Many of the kids we hired were so dumb and undeserving (there are plenty of Princelings from Harvard, but they only want the cachet of Morgan Stanley or Goldman Sachs) and it frustrated New York so much so that they “coincidentally” decentralized recruiting and training, so that the hiring for Asia was done out of Asia.
I chose Justin from a pool of eight kids in Hong Kong specifically assigned to fixed-income sales and syndicate. Of these eight kids, only one of them came from a target recruiting school. None of them particularly excelled on paper or in person. None of them would have made it beyond the first round of interviews in New York. But two of them were kids of well-known billionaire families, and the rest were just superrich—all of them.
In some cases, these kids didn’t even want to be there; all their family wanted was to be able to say that their kid worked as an “investment banker” for a prestigious firm for a few years before joining the family business or going to business school. It didn’t matter what the job was. In one instance, the structured credit trading desk hired the son of a billionaire Hong Kong tycoon as the desk assistant. The kid was remarkably down-to-earth, but it was hilarious watching people tiptoe around him ever so politely, prefacing mundane requests with “Hey, if it’s not too much trouble . . .” as opposed to the typical “Hey, fuckstick.”
At the end of the day, we’d all get in the same long taxi line to go home, and these kids would discree
tly slink away to the chauffeured cars waiting for them.
When I started, I was not fully cognizant of the extent to which many of these kids are untouchable. In my world, bullying and hazing are an important trading-floor tradition and a valuable training tool. Being sent an hour away to pick up the “best roast beef sandwiches in the city” is just one of many ways I was reminded of my lowly status when I was an analyst. The tough love and usually good-natured antics are part of the maturation process of learning how to thrive on a trading floor. As I saw it, I had an obligation to pass this ethos down to the next generation.
When they had been out of training for only a week, I called each of the new analysts pretending to be from HR—my effeminate Cantonese-English accent is amazing. I told them to come down later that week at a set time for the prerequisite new employee drug test. The HR rep for fixed income had no idea what to do with them when they randomly and nervously turned up at her cubicle. Seven of the eight showed up. One kid called in sick that day; I liked him immediately.
My harmless gag wasn’t well received by HR or the analyst staffer, who himself had been a banker (obviously not a good one) prior to his current administrative position. “Trust me, this isn’t New York and you’re not Lewis Ranieri. You don’t want to mess with these kids here.”
This message was quietly reinforced a few weeks later when the errant toss of a Nerf football smacked a girl named Shalom right in the face. Besides the fact that it’s not kosher to hit a girl, some of the local Chinese guys were in complete shock. “Do you know who her dad is?”
“No, I didn’t know her dad is the CEO of some Taiwanese conglomerate that I’ve never fucking heard of. But more important, why the fuck is her name Shalom?”
In Asia, many Mainland Chinese and Taiwanese assign themselves or their children completely arbitrary English names. This is why there are so many kids in Chengdu and Shenzhen who call themselves Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, or Joey. (Even they can’t bring themselves to go by Ross.) It turns out that Shalom had spent a year in California as a foreign exchange student to learn English. The very Jewish family that hosted her graciously assigned her the name Shalom. The language barrier proved insurmountable when we tried explaining to her why we thought this was hilarious. Oy vey iz mir!