The Buy Side

by Turney Duff

  It’s hard for me even to look at her. Her eyes are empty. I offer her some of my cocaine because I don’t know what else to do. She’s very thankful and offers me a beer, but then tells me she’s out. “I’ll go to the deli,” she says. “No, I’ll go,” I tell her. “I’ll be right back,” I say as I close her door behind me.

  I run to the deli as fast as I can. I buy a six-pack of Bud Light, the same as the empty cans I saw on her coffee table. When I return I set the six-pack down outside her door and stuff a couple of hundred-dollar bills in between two of the cans so the cash is sticking up and noticeable. I knock on the door and run back to the elevator.

  It’s past midnight. On the street, I get a text from a guy named John at Credit Suisse. He’s with a group at Lotus back in the Meatpacking District. I jump in a cab. There’s a line of about twenty people waiting to get in when I arrive. I walk directly to the door, but the tree-trunk arm of the three-hundred-pound African American bouncer stops me. “I don’t wait in lines,” I tell him. “I snort them.” He looks at me curiously for a moment and then he opens the velvet rope. I see John and the guys hanging out at the middle of the bar, so I head their way. John turns to the bartender and orders me a Patrón Silver on the rocks with three limes. I notice a girl standing off to the side, talking with a couple of her friends. She looks really cute. She’s got a silky black sleeveless shirt and white pants on. After Labor Day—I love it. I catch her eye as John hands me a drink. She’s petite and her hair is all done up except for one loose strand that hangs to the side of her head. I like the way she smiles. I walk directly up to her.

  “Do you think I’m cute?” I ask.

  “I—I guess,” she says with a giggle.

  “I’m thirty-four, single, live in a triplex in Tribeca, and make seven figures,” I say, and then wait a beat. “How cute am I now?”

  “You’re funny,” she says. I don’t even say goodbye to the guys from Credit Suisse. I grab my new friend’s hand and leave.

  By four fifteen a.m. I’m standing naked in my bathroom. I drop the used condom in the toilet and look in the mirror. My hair stands straight up and my face is bright red. I have two thoughts. How am I going to get this girl out of my bed and how am I going to get out of work today?

  In the bedroom, she’s awake, sitting naked on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette. She looks like she’s striking a pose. Her silky sleeveless black shirt and white pants are nicely folded on the red velvet chaise lounge next to my bed. I force a smile, grab my pants off the floor, and quickly turn back into the bathroom. She doesn’t say a word.

  I tap out a hefty rope on the countertop next to my toothbrush and toothpaste. I pull out a crumpled-up dollar bill from my jeans, roll it up, and inhale the line. I see myself in the mirror again but look away immediately. I pour a tiny bit of cocaine onto my toothbrush and give my gums a quick scrub. I force myself to look in the mirror again and take a few deep breaths.

  When I return to the bed I climb under the covers. What time is it? I ask. We’re both looking at the same alarm clock. “Almost four thirty,” she says. I jump up out of bed in a panic. “Oh, shit—I have to trade Europe today,” I say. It’s something I have to do on a rare occasion, but not today. As I pick up all of my clothes and stuff on the floor, I tell her that I’m going to jump in the shower to get ready and then I’ll walk her to get a cab. I disappear into the bathroom again.

  When I get out of the shower, now wearing a towel around my waist, I see she’s still naked in bed. She won’t leave. I dart into my walk-in closet to think. I put on a blue shirt and a charcoal Prada suit. There’s no way I’m going to work, but continuing the charade is the only way I can figure to get her to leave. I slip on my socks and shoes and head back to the bathroom. I see she’s still in the same position. I have to leave in five, I say firmly. Finally she gets out of bed and starts to put her clothes on. I comb back my wet hair.

  She holds my hand as we walk down Laight Street. My plan is to put her in a cab and head right back to the apartment, but then she asks, “So where are you headed?”

  “Wherrrrrre are you headed?” I say back to her. But she waits for me to respond. We get in the cab together. Fuck!

  She holds my hand again as we ride in silence. When we get to her building, she gives me a kiss on the cheek and thanks me for the night. “I’ll call you,” I say, but I realize I don’t remember her name. Did she even tell me? When she gave me her number, I entered it into my phone under “Lotus Chick.” “Hi, is Lotus Chick there? It’s Turney.”

  I tell the cabbie to turn around and take me right back to where he picked me up. He glances at me in the rearview mirror. Whatever. I stare out the window. Inside my apartment, Ethan and Jason are still sleeping, so I tiptoe back to my room and lock the door. Safely locked away, I pull out my cocaine and do another line on my desk next to my computer mouse. I shake the mouse for the computer screen to illuminate and I see it’s creeping up on six a.m. I undress down to my boxer briefs and light up a cigarette and open my window a crack.

  My whole body trembles. I need more booze. I sneak back down to the kitchen to grab whatever’s in the refrigerator. I have a bottle of wine and three beers tucked under my left arm, pinned against my body, as I go back upstairs. I just need help coming down. I look at the clock again; it’s a little past six. This is my window of opportunity. Melinda is probably on the desk, but she’ll be the only one in the office. If I call in sick now, she’ll be the only one I have to talk to and she won’t ask any questions. I stand up and start pacing back and forth, practicing my speech. Finally, I hit Dial. Melinda tells me she’s sorry I’m sick but she sounds like my mother used to when she didn’t believe me. When I hang up the phone, I dump out another line of cocaine on the desk and flick on the television in my room. I rent a porn movie and sit in my desk chair and turn the volume way down. I don’t want Jason and Ethan to know I’m home. I’ll just do a little more blow, drink a bit, and then go to bed. Then I won’t party for the rest of the year.

  AND FOR the most part, I don’t party. I spend Christmas by myself in the Tribeca triplex. I was invited to all three of my sisters’ houses, which are now filled with husbands and children, eight nieces and nephews, to be exact, but I didn’t feel like traveling (certainly not to Paris). My parents are in Cleveland visiting my sister Kelly’s family, so I couldn’t go back to Maine. It’s not like I’m anti-Christmas or anything. I love Christmas. But I don’t mind being alone, either. Anyhow, Melinda and Rich have covered for me so many times over the past six months that I told them to take Christmas week off.

  It’s about four in the afternoon and I’m on the couch in sweats. I plug in the Christmas tree, throw a Duraflame on the fire, and click on the TV. There are eight wrapped gifts for me under the tree—most of them from the sell side. I light a cigarette and start to open them. I get a couple of bottles of wine, nice, expensive French or Californian cabernet. I get a Tivo box—cool—and an envelope with a gift certificate for a night’s stay in the Thompson Hotel. I get a case of Don Perignon and a case of Patrón Silver. The last gift I open is from my mom. She gives me the same thing every year: a handmade calendar with family photos and dates of family birthdays and anniversaries marked so I won’t forget.

  I decide to open a bottle of wine. I go grab a corkscrew in the kitchen. When I get back to the couch I roll a joint and pour myself a glass of red. The Duraflame crackles in the fireplace. The tree twinkles. Through the window in the living room, Christmas night begins to fall. I hope it snows.

  The next day is Friday and the market is open. I’m at work by six thirty, and alone on the desk. It’s nice, peaceful—the slowest day of the year. I think back to my early time at Galleon, how terrified I was at this time of the day. And how different I feel now, and yet there’s this gnawing feeling deep inside, like I’m about to be found out. Then I begin to think about my bonus. Yes, my bonus. That’s it. My bonus will fill me.

  The math is simple: we divide up 20 perce
nt of the profits after expenses for the full calendar year. I also get a percentage of the management fee—the deal I worked out with Krishen. I started doing the math in October and knew I was on pace to hit my goal. November was up, as was December. Something bad could happen, of course. In 2002, Argus was heavily invested in a hospital chain called Tenet Healthcare. That November, the FBI raided one of the hospitals on allegations of Medicare fraud and unnecessary surgeries. We lost thirty, forty million in two days. It totally crushed our year. But that was last year. This year is different. And so am I.

  Monday and Tuesday the following week are slow. Though trading on Wednesday, New Year’s Eve, is also light—the Street is making last-minute plans or hoping to get out of Dodge—for me it’s one of the most important days of the year. This is the only trading day when unrealized profit and losses count toward your performance, whereas the rest of the year positions must be closed out by either a sell or a cover to be a realized gain or loss. What happens today will directly affect my bonus.

  There’s something known as “ripping a stock,” which is a manipulation of the stock price. Essentially, that’s what I’m trying to do today. The more stocks I can rip today, the better our number will be for the year.

  I begin by identifying our ten largest positions that are illiquid. By illiquid I mean companies that don’t trade more than a few hundred thousand shares a day. It’s much easier to move the price with these than, say, a stock that trades a million shares a day. I find names such as CYBX, Cyberonics, a neuromodulator company engaged in the design, development, and commercialization of implantable medical devices that provide vagus nerve stimulation therapy for the treatment of refractory epilepsy and treatment-resistant depression. What? I have no idea what that means and I don’t care. The stock fits my criteria. Once I have all the stocks identified, I wait until the market is almost closed for the year to make my move.

  At about three o’clock in the afternoon, I get a call from a broker named Tracey who works for a firm that is light on research but heavy on hustle and expense account—she’s taken me on several trips. Like all of my brokers, Tracey is someone I talk to every day. But she’s calling me at this moment because I ripped stocks with her on this day last year and she wants to know if I’m going to use her again. For her it’s a great boost to her commission run, millions of shares to trade with no risk. Her excuse for why she needs the orders early is so she can prepare. Bullshit! The thing about ripping stocks is, the bigger banks like Goldman and Morgan Stanley won’t do it. You need a firm like Tracey’s that plays it fast and loose. Let me get right back to you, I say. And I hang up the phone.

  In one way, I have to hand it to Tracey. She’s got a lot of balls. When I used her last year, I knew she leaked my orders to another client so they could front run my trades. I knew this because the stocks began to tick up before the time I told her to put my orders in. Then her shady client was selling them back to me when I was trying to rip the stock. And now she’s on the phone again this year, looking to do the same thing. But I’m not the same trader I was last year.

  I still want everybody to love me. But if you’re going to try and fuck me, I’ll fuck you harder. Maybe it’s the MDRX trade that Rosenbach had me shut out of, or maybe it’s just the natural process of becoming jaded the longer you work for hedge funds. Whatever it is, Tracey has just made a huge mistake.

  At 3:30, I call her back and explain how important this year is to me and how I really need her to do a great job. Then I give her the orders with an explicit instruction to not trade them until 3:55. “Not a second before,” I say.

  “I know,” she says.

  There are ten companies, and I’m shorting each a million shares. I repeat the list of ten stocks back to her. A short of a million shares of CYBX in five minutes, for example, would typically take the stock down at least five dollars, probably more.

  I have the ten stocks up on my computer screen so I can monitor them. At about 3:40, they start to move a little lower until all of them are red, negative for the day. I’m sure Tracey leaked my orders again. I call her. Remember, I tell her, don’t start selling any of my orders until 3:55. “Of course,” she says, sounding almost insulted that I’d call to remind her. At 3:51, the stocks are still going down. At 3:52 they get hit another thirty cents. At 3:53 they are beginning to hold at their lower levels, and at 3:54 it’s time for me to go to work. Whoever front ran my order is done and is waiting to buy them back when I hit the market. They think they’ll make a few easy bucks. It’s then that I pick up the phone. “I know, I know,” Tracey says. “I’m getting ready to short all your stocks right now.”

  “Actually,” I say, “cancel all my orders.” The silence is priceless.

  “What?” she finally manages to say.

  “Cancel all my orders,” I say. I’ve reminded her twice not to place the orders until 3:55. It is 3:54, and she has no out.

  As soon as I hang up the phone, I call Gus and give him the real orders; they’re actually buys, not sells. By 3:56 the stocks are moving higher. By 3:57 almost all of them are flat on the day. By 3:58 they’re ripping—Gus and Tracey’s client can’t buy them fast enough, and by the closing bell I’m up a few dollars on all of them. When Gus calls back with reports, he tells me he was only able to buy a few hundred thousand of each stock. He feels bad. I tell him it’s perfect. Argus just made an extra ten million dollars.

  I call Tracey a couple of minutes later and apologize for the canceling of my orders. At the last minute, I say, we decided we didn’t need to short any of those stocks. “Not a big deal,” she manages to say, but she sounds sick to her stomach. Whoever she leaked my orders to must be livid with her. They had to have gotten crushed. Undoubtedly, they paid a much higher price than where they shorted it in front of my fake orders. Trading 101: buy low, sell high. Ooops. Nothing worse than losing a few million dollars in the last minute of the year. Happy New Year, I tell Tracey, but she’s already hung up the phone. I know it’s going to be a happy one for me.

  EIGHT MONTHS later the city is blistering hot, concrete heat, brick heat. Opening the cab door is like opening the door of a pizza oven. There’s a Mister Softee truck parked across from me. It sells ice cream, not computer software and Xboxes. The radiated heat from the street rises in front of it. It looks like a mirage. August can be brutal in the city.

  There’s a coffee shop with a large front window just down the block from my appointment. I go check my reflection to make sure I look okay. I’m wearing a black Armani sport coat and pants. A tie is standard-issue for a co-op board meeting, but I’m not wearing one. I’ve decided to live dangerously. I duck into the coffee shop to kill some time. Since I’m early, I order an iced coffee and sit at the counter. The shop is small. I imagine myself on Saturday or Sunday mornings coming in to get some coffee and all the employees saying: “Hey, Turney.” I drink half of the coffee and check my phone for the time. I still have about five minutes until the meeting. I put five dollars on the counter and make my way outside.

  Out in the heat, I hit my speed dial for my new girlfriend, Jenn, and wait for her to pick up. “Hey, I’m about to go in,” I say.

  “You’ll do great,” she says in her positive tone, a survival instinct she’s acquired from a career filled with personal rejection. “They’ll love you.” There’s an uncomfortable pause when she says that. Jenn has changed my life. She’s been my girlfriend now for almost seven months, and we’ve been flirting with using the word “love” for the last couple. I’ve been joking with her that the first time I say it will be in a text message. She doesn’t think it’s funny. But I don’t let that stop me. I’ll text one letter at a time, I tell her. I might even let her buy a vowel. I say goodbye and hang up. I make my way to the building and knock gently three times. I can hear some commotion inside, but I’m not sure if they heard my knock. I wait.

  “I” I met Jenn on a blind date. My cousin Ethan is a friend of a friend of hers—a girl who used to work with her
. Jenn is a singer and backed up Enrique Iglesias on tour. She actually got fired from the gig because of jealousy. Iglesias was—maybe still is—dating the tennis babe Anna Kournikova, who, according to Jenn, thought her boyfriend’s backup was upstaging her in the looks department. Jenn said that Anna even took to throwing Jolly Rancher candies at her from her seat by the stage. Jenn is so beautiful, she’s caused at least one car accident I know of, and probably more. One look at her and you forget you’re driving.

  Back in front of the door at the co-op office, I knock a little harder. This time they had to have heard it. A few seconds later the door is opened by an older gentleman with coiffed white hair. He welcomes me in with a thin smile. The room is not very impressive. It’s a cross between an unorganized office and a maintenance room. There are stacks of paper all over the desk and several filing cabinets mixed in with some tools and broken furniture. The building, 27 Bleecker, was built in 1910 as a fabric mill. In the 1980s some tenants banded together to buy it. It’s seven stories high, and along with this co-op office, the ground floor houses an art studio. It makes you laugh. This is supposedly an “artists’ building,” but the apartments sell for a couple million apiece. It’s a good guess that not a lot of the people who live here are painting portraits in Washington Square Park for a living. There are two apartments per floor—the “A” line ones are around 1,100 square feet, and the “B” apartments on the north side of the building are all around 2,200 square feet. I want 5B. It’s listed at $1.8 million, but we agree on $1.75.