by Turney Duff
Rosenbach and Slaine went to the Reebok gym together to work out. It was six o’clock in the morning. After the workout, they ended up together in the steam room, although not alone. There were two other men in there with them. What happened next has been told many times and in varying ways. Naked and holding his towel, sweat dripping from his face, Gary started riling Dave about being bullish this year. “We’re losing money ’cause of you,” he said. Slaine, with his muscles glimmering in the steam, warned Gary to stop, not once or twice, but three times. But Gary didn’t stop. Gary doesn’t know what “stop” means when it comes to belittling people. Slaine even told Gary, like Babe Ruth calling his shot, what he was going to do if Gary continued. But Gary, his voice high-pitched and whiny like a dentist’s drill, continued. And that’s when it happened, an open-handed slap. Apparently the gash was a result of Dave’s thumbnail catching Gary above the eye. For a moment, standing completely naked, enveloped by steam, Gary stood stunned, glaring at Slaine. “Twenty years of friendship,” he said. “Down the drain.” Then he turned and stormed out of the steam room.
All that day I sit between them and not a word from one to the other crosses my space. I begin to feel like the Berlin Wall. At one point, Raj pulls Dave aside (but within earshot) and tells him he has to figure out a way to work with Gary. “It didn’t happen on campus,” Raj says. “It’s not my problem.” The next day is the same, then a whole week of absolute silence between them. But the rest of the office buzzes behind their backs. Word comes that Gary’s wife has called Raj to tell him he has to fire Dave. She says Gary is afraid to come to the office. He fears for his safety. The rest of us think it’s comical, but we know it’s just a ploy to make Raj choose between the two. The hostility is exacerbated, if that’s even possible, by the lackluster market. I wonder if the bitch-slap would have happened at all if we were making money. Of course, everyone on the Street knows of the incident. But when I’m asked about it, which I am all the time, I just shrug and say something about verbal abuse being just as bad as physical, a thinly veiled reference to Gary’s rudeness in the office. A month later, the relationship between Gary and Slaine is so fragile that something has to break. And it does.
One morning Slaine tells me to follow him into a conference room. He sits across the table from me. The material of his Izod shirt stretches to its limit across his chest. “This morning I’m telling Raj and Krishen I’m resigning,” he says. “I’m starting my own hedge fund with two other guys.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but friendly. “I wanted you to know first.” It’s not as if I’m shocked. I knew something had to happen, and I also knew the chance of Gary’s leaving the firm was slim. Gary’s a founding partner, knows Raj all the way back to Needham. I wonder how I’m going to deal with Gary all by myself. “I think you should stay, see how they treat you,” Slaine continues, as if he’s reading my thoughts. “If they don’t treat you well, come work for me.” After all his help, Slaine is now giving me my greatest defense against Gary. If Rosenbach gives me any more shit, I’ll follow Dave right out the door. The thought gives me comfort. And with comfort comes clarity. It dawns on me that this could really turn out well. With Slaine gone, Galleon needs me.
And just like that, in David’s still warm seat, I’m the sole trader responsible for the billion-dollar healthcare portfolio. I think the firm is looking outside the office to add a trader for the healthcare team, but until they do, it’s all mine. I start getting to the office at six a.m. I need to know everything there is about healthcare. I stay after work to ask Krishen about all of the different sectors. I plan three business dinners a week. I seek out the smartest healthcare guys in the business. The sell side sees me as the new golden ticket. I’m in charge of distributing the commissions. The first month is a hard adjustment, but by the second, I think I might be able to pull this off. The third month, I’m starting to believe they aren’t going to hire anyone else. I don’t make any mistakes; I handle all of the order flow. I know everything happening in our sectors, and Krishen leans on me for insight. Even Gary treats me like a trader. And Raj asks me questions about the market. This is really happening.
The rumors and fears in the office about the Nortel trade died down after a few months but haven’t completely gone away. Every now and then at business dinners someone brings up what happened, but it’s usually in the context of overall admiration. Ultimately, on Wall Street, it doesn’t matter how you make the money, only how much you make. And, despite the downturn in the market, Galleon’s reputation as a moneymaker continues to grow—our assets under management are close to $5 billion. We’re one of the largest hedge funds on the Street that I know of. And certainly among the most active—we trade all day and every day.
Though the shock of David’s leaving subsides, it leaves a scar. For one thing, it drives a wedge between Raj and Gary. Slaine had been Gary’s best friend—the best man at his wedding. After the steam room incident, Gary, at least as far as I know, never talked to Dave again. But Raj, always the businessman, kept his relationship with Slaine—at least, that’s what he led Gary to believe.
It’s during those first three months as Galleon’s head healthcare trader that my relationship with Krishen grows. Among all the people and characters on Wall Street I’ve come to know, Krishen is one of the good guys. Honest, fair, and hardworking, he doesn’t fit the mold of an evil portfolio manager. Every night he goes home to Greenwich to be with his family, which includes two young boys. Their artwork adorns his desk. Krishen is passionate about politics and issues outside of Wall Street, such as the environment. I admire the way he lives his life.
Not that I’m ready to live the way he does. Aside from my new position and the abundance of business dinners, my life at first doesn’t change much. Even though I go out often with sales traders, I don’t care for the fancy restaurants that are populated by buy side guys and other Wall Street big shots. I like wearing jeans and T-shirts and going to Mexican places on the Upper West Side, like Rancho and Santa Fe. One night I’m with a sales trader at Santa Fe and when the bill comes he says, “I’m going to get in trouble for this. This check is too small.”
My dinners take on a whole new purpose and agenda. When John from Goldman offers to meet me for a drink, I jump at the chance. Though I know on which side of the table he sits, I enjoy being with him and think of him as a friend. Plus, I think he can help me navigate the uncharted waters I’m swimming in. We meet at the same bar we had the first time, on the Upper West Side. This time I’m there before him. He walks in wearing a huge smile. His thinning, brownish-blond hair is a mess on top. He holds out his arms to hug me. I stand and he squeezes me hard. “Turney, baby,” he says. He releases me and takes a step back. “Look at you, all growns up.” He pretends to wipe away a tear from his eye. “I’m just so proud,” he chortles. “Have they interviewed anyone for Slaine’s spot?”
“Not that I know of,” I say.
“This is good, really good,” he says, taking a sip of Jack Daniel’s. “I want you to call me first thing every morning. I’m going to put my pharma trader and biotech traders on the phone with you.” This is the very first time I’ve seen John talk seriously about business. He stares right into my eyes. His face shows little expression. “I’m gonna have them give you a rundown of everything happening in healthcare.” Though I believe he’s trying to help me, I can also tell he’s trying to help himself. We order another drink and toast to my promotion. I tell him again this might only be temporary. I don’t really feel that way, and neither does John. I don’t see myself going in reverse, and neither does he. I drain my drink, push the empty glass across the bar, and stand. “Where you going?” he asks.
“Dinner, I told you.”
“You double booker, you,” he says, feigning injury. “Now that you’re a big-shot hedge-fund trader, you don’t have time for the little guy?” I give him my best Come on face and shrug, and he finally breaks into a smile. I go into my pocket to pull out some cash. “Please don’t em
barrass me,” he says. I smile, stuff the bills back into my jeans, turn, and start for the door. “I’ll have my guys call you in the mornin’,” he hollers after me. I wave back at him without turning around, step into the night, and flag a cab for downtown.
Though by definition buy siders have strong personalities, at Galleon there’s never been any doubt on whose head sits the crown, and until recently not even Krishen would think of challenging Raj’s leadership. Though Krishen is friendly with his partner and the two men take their wives along on social events together, Krishen seems happy to be in service of the king. Or at least he was. Now it seems those roles have been turned upside down. The idea of a mutiny on the “good ship Galleon” is unthinkable, and yet that’s exactly what begins to occur.
On a Friday I hear shouting coming from Krishen’s office. He never raises his voice to anyone, let alone to Raj. Some minutes later, Krishen storms out of his office. He holds a stack of files as if he’s a fullback on a one-yard plunge. Fronting Krishen are three of our top healthcare analysts, like a flying wedge. They plow through the room and out the front door. They leave a vacuum in their wake. Whispers and shrugs are exchanged. With the exception of Raj and the four who just left, no one knows what’s going on. But everyone knows something big just happened.
The weekend goes by like it’s the last period in grammar school. Finally, Sunday afternoon, the phone rings and I hear Krishen’s soft, singsong inflections. He tells me he’s starting up his own healthcare hedge fund and that he’d like me to work with him. He gives me the address of a temporary office space he’s taken and tells me to come in the following day, Monday, to talk.
That night I can’t stop thinking about the events that are unfolding. Just a few days ago, the thought of Krishen’s quitting the firm was absurd. Along with being devoted to Raj, he also made an absolute fortune working at Galleon. In 2000, both Raj and Krishen made top ten lists of highest earners among hedge fund managers. And according to one list, Krishen’s $48 million made that year was nearly twice what Raj was compensated, but I’m sure it didn’t include the money Raj made in the admiral’s account. Why would Krishen jeopardize that kind of money, I wonder, unless he’s convinced he’s heading to an insanely lucrative situation? All of this contemplation makes for a fitful night’s sleep as I summon visions of life-changing opportunity and a once-in-a-career move. What’s he going to offer me? Head trader? Partner? Founding partner? Traders at this level get a percentage of the profits. I’ll ask for ten, but settle for five. I need to fall asleep.
First thing Monday morning, I call the desk at Galleon and tell them I have a dentist appointment. I make it sound like Krishen knew about it so Gary won’t be suspicious. I doubt it’ll work, but I don’t have another idea. I dress in khakis and a blue button-down and head out the door. It’s a beautiful early June day. The temporary office is at Fiftieth Street and Sixth Avenue. I walk there.
Sitting in the conference room are Krishen and the three analysts who followed him out Raj’s front door: Nate, Angeli, and Zandy. Nate is maybe forty. His hair is perfectly coiffed in a square-back, Brylcreem, Republican sort of way. Angeli is also fortyish, and has one defiant white streak in her short black hair. Zandy is younger than I am. She worked in a lab somewhere in the U.K. My guess is her parents were hippies and they probably think she’s still in a lab trying to cure diseases. Krishen begins by apologizing about the scene he caused on Friday. He tells me a little more about what happened. He approached Raj with the idea of spinning off a new healthcare hedge fund. Krishen hoped to get his blessing for the project. Although he doesn’t tell me the more intricate details, Krishen makes it seem that Raj would have had some type of role in the new venture, as an investor. At first Raj was receptive, a handshake. But when Krishen returned from lunch, Raj had already offered his job to Angeli. He was trying to push Krishen out and not let him take his own analyst with him. It was Raj’s way of telling Krishen to go fuck himself.
But given the disruptive events on Friday, Krishen seems just fine. In fact, the positive aura he emits is contagious. I feel like this might be an amazing opportunity. Everyone on Wall Street talks about their “number.” It’s usually a single or double digit, at least in the strata in which I exist, something like “five” or “ten.” Those numbers are the millions you need in the bank to leave Wall Street. The longer you stick around, the more children you have, the better the schools they go to, the more ex-wives and bad investments you collect, the more the number rises. I’ve never seen anyone hit their number and leave.
I was told in my first year working at Morgan that if I stayed on Wall Street longer than five years I’d never leave. They called it the Golden Handcuffs. “Maybe for you,” I said back to them, “but I’m different.” I wasn’t about to let money dictate how I lived my life. That attitude has served me well. I’ve now been on Wall Street seven years. I’m not really sure what my number is, but five might be enough. As I sit in Krishen’s office, that number is dancing right in front of me. On top of a salary of $150,000, Krishen offers me 3 percent of the business. I tell him I want 10. We settle at 5.
Now the only thing left for me to do is resign. Back in Galleon’s office, it’s as if someone turned up the heat. The collar of my shirt is soaked in sweat. I don’t know why I’m so worried. All of sudden I feel like a kid walking to meet the bully behind the school. I ask Gary and Raj for a minute of their time. I can tell by their expressions that they know what’s happening. We enter a small empty office.
I have the speech all prepared. I heard myself say it in my head thirty times on the way over. Somehow the words don’t sound as forceful coming out of my mouth as they did in my thoughts. “I’d like to thank you for the opportunity and everything you’ve done for me …” I try to keep eye contact, but it’s difficult. I see the wheels beginning to turn behind Raj’s eyes before I’m halfway through. He nods his big brown head slightly. His usual happy-looking countenance is now hard and unfriendly. When I’m done he tells me he needs to speak to Gary alone for a minute. I stand by my desk and wait. All the traders are looking at me, dying to ask me what’s going on. They have a good idea but they want the details.
When Raj comes out of the office just a few minutes later, he looks like a bull about to charge. But his words are measured. “We’ll give you three hundred grand to stay,” he says. Just like that. $300k. “And we’ll wire it into your bank today.” I don’t know whether he thinks I’m too valuable to lose or he just doesn’t want Krishen to have me—probably the latter. For a moment, I consider the offer. But I’ve called my Uncle Tucker and told him about my situation. He’s given me sound advice throughout my career, but none better than in my most recent conversation: “When you make up your mind, stick with your decision,” he said. “And if you do decide to resign, don’t let them talk you out of it, because they’ll never forget.”
I knew he was right. Raj and Gary would never forget the day I took $300k from them. Someday, somehow, some way, they would get their money back. I look at the big man in front of me. His eyes shimmer with anger. “Thanks,” I say, “but I’ve already given my word.” I turn my back and walk out of Galleon for the last time.
In the summer of 2001, Argus Partners is formed. My first order of business is to start making calls to my sales traders, those who covered me when I was at Galleon. At first I’m surprised at the icy reception I receive. Then I realize, a cutthroat outfit like Galleon isn’t going to just sit idly by while Argus builds itself into a competitor. Gary tells all of Galleon’s coverage that if they do business with me, they can’t do business with him. And that means millions and millions in commissions.
I arrange face-to-face meetings with every brokerage firm on the Street. Gary might be able to bully my old sales traders into not covering me, but he can’t stop me from meeting new ones. I really believe Argus Partners is a bullet train, and if they don’t want to be left at the station, they’d better hop aboard. To signify confidence, I decide to inve
st in my image and buy a new suit or two.
I walk into Barneys wearing baggy shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. The casual outfit aside, I think I have a decent sense of fashion. But I also have a tattoo of Chief Wahoo, the Cleveland Indians’ mascot, on my ankle, so I’m not exactly Isaac Mizrahi. A salesman sees me wandering aimlessly and asks if he can help.
I tell him I work at a hedge fund and need some new suits. Immediately I’m led to a private dressing room where I’m cross-examined by two fashionistas named Peter and Kevin: How would I describe my style?
“Old Hollywood,” I say. “Think Clark Gable or Bogart.” I’m full of shit, but I figure I’ll just wing it.
“Colors?”
“Blues and blacks,” I say.
“Shoes?”
“Ones that fit,” I say. Peter looks down at my flip-flops and almost pulls a muscle trying to not be judgmental. When he asks me what my social life is like, I smile.
“Cocktail parties? Charity events? Clubs?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” I say.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” he asks.
“Several,” I say. I don’t.