‘All right, everybody, listen up!’ announced a gruff voice. They fell silent. A large middle-aged man with black hair gelled back over his balding scalp was occupying the empty space at the front of the class. ‘My name is George Calhoun, and I’m responsible for the training programme here at Bloomfield Weiss. It’s something I’m very proud of.’
He paused. He had their attention.
‘Now as you know, Bloomfield Weiss is the most feared and respected investment bank on Wall Street. How have we achieved this? Why do we lead more equity and bond issues year in and year out than any of our competitors? What makes us the best? Well, one of the answers is right here. This programme.
‘This is the toughest programme on the Street.’ He pronounced it ‘Schtreet’, in what Chris already knew as the true Bloomfield Weiss tough-guy fashion. We’re not just going to teach you all the tools you’ll need — the bond math, the corporate finance, all that good stuff. We’re going to teach you that the guy who tries hardest, who works hardest, who refuses to come second, he’s the winner.’ Calhoun’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes glinting. ‘Wall Street is a jungle and you’re all predators. Out there,’ and at this he waved his arm vaguely towards the outside world somewhere beyond the windowless walls, ‘Out there are the prey.’
He paused, took a deep breath and tucked his stomach into his trousers. ‘Now, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is, you’re not all going to make it. We’re introducing a new policy from this programme on. The weakest among you, the bottom quartile, will fall by the wayside. I know you’ve all worked your asses off to get here, fought your way through the best schools, beaten a hundred other candidates for your jobs, but you’re going to be working harder in the next five months than you’ve ever worked in your lives before. And the meanest, the toughest among you, will go on to build Bloomfield Weiss for the future.’
He stopped and looked round the room, checking for his effect on the audience. They were all stunned.
‘Any questions?’
Silence. Chris looked round at his fellow trainees. They seemed as nonplussed as he felt.
Then a lone hand was raised. It belonged to a tall, striking woman with short white hair. Her name card said Lenka Nemeckova.
Calhoun turned with a frown towards the hand, a frown that softened almost into a leer when he saw to whom it belonged.
‘Yes, er, Lenka?’
‘I understand the bad news,’ said the woman in a hoarse East European accent, tinged with American. ‘Now can you give us the good news?’
Calhoun was momentarily confused. The class could see him trying to remember, with all of them, just what the good news was. Chris heard a laugh behind him he recognized as Duncan’s. It rippled round the auditorium, dispersing the tension that had been so carefully nurtured by Calhoun’s speech.
Calhoun was not happy ‘The good news, ma’am, is that you’ll be eating, sleeping and dreaming nothing but Bloomfield Weiss for the next five months.’ He stuck his jaw out towards her, defying her to answer back.
Lenka smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, yes, that will be nice.’
The day was spent describing how much work they would have to do and then giving it to them. The sixty trainees emerged, reeling, at five o’clock, clasping the assignments that would have to be completed over the following week. Abby Hollis met each of them with three hefty books on bond mathematics, economics and capital markets. She also provided canvas bags, with Bloomfield Weiss written on them in discreet lettering. There was too much material for the slim designer briefcases most of the trainees had bought during their first few months in the job.
‘Whew!’ said Duncan, looking shaken. ‘I need a beer.’
That seemed a perfectly good idea to Chris and Ian. Duncan, ever friendly, turned to a pudgy man with a long, pointed nose who was neatly stacking the assignments into his bag. His name was Rudy Moss. ‘Want to come?’
Rudy glanced down at his bulging canvas bag and shook his head pityingly. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and drifted off.
‘Mind if we join you?’ asked a voice behind Duncan. It was Eric Astle, the American who had sat next to Chris, and with whom he had exchanged a few incredulous glances during the afternoon. With him was a small, dark man, with a thin shadow of bristle over his jaw. Eric introduced him as Alex Lubron.
‘Of course,’ said Duncan. ‘Do you know anywhere to go round here?’
‘There’s Jerry’s,’ said Alex. ‘Come on. We’ll show you,’ and he led the small troop towards the elevator.
They passed Lenka, standing tall and alone, the hubbub of chattering trainees breaking round her, as though nervous of engaging her in conversation.
Duncan hesitated. ‘Fancy a wee one?’ he asked, overdoing his Scottish act.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Would you like to come for a drink with us?’ he said, with a friendly smile. Lenka returned it. ‘Why not?’ she said, gathering up her stuff. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Jesus, can you believe that stuff about the bottom quartile?’ Duncan asked the group crammed round a small table, as a waiter distributed cold beers. Jerry’s was a basement bar round the corner from Bloomfield Weiss. It was heaving with beefy traders reliving their exploits of the day. They can’t be serious. Can they?’
‘They can,’ Chris said.
‘But we’ve worked so hard to get this far, it seems completely stupid to throw anyone out now,’ said Duncan.
‘It is. They won’t. Don’t worry,’ said Ian, lighting up a cigarette. ‘That lower-quartile stuff is just a way of getting rid of people they don’t like. We’ll be OK.’
‘You might be. I’m not so sure about me.’
Ian shrugged, as though Duncan might have a point but it didn’t bother him too much. Ian was polished and self-confident, the cream of the annual milk round. He had dark, fine, dangerously good-looking features. He wore the best suits of the three of them, shirts with cufflinks, and ties that didn’t seem to get stains on them. Unlike Duncan, his shirt tails never hung out. He was the nearest any of them had managed to come to looking and sounding like a real investment banker. The only detail that spoiled the image was his bitten-down fingernails.
‘Can I have one of those?’ Lenka asked Ian, pointing to his cigarette packet.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.’ Ian offered her one and she lit it with obvious pleasure. ‘Anyone else?’
Alex, too, lit up.
‘Your country is barbaric, the way you don’t let people smoke,’ Lenka said. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get through the day.’
There was a no-smoking policy in the training programme offices. Smoking had not quite been totally stamped out in Bloomfield Weiss. Some traders held out, still managing to smoke fat cigars on the trading floor, but its days were numbered.
‘That’s right,’ said Ian. ‘Don’t the people have a right to bear cigarettes? Or is it machine guns? I never can remember.’
‘We used to,’ said Alex. ‘But Big Government is taking it away from us. What we need is a smoker for President, don’t you think, Eric? Eric’s our political activist. He was single-handedly responsible for getting Bush elected.’
‘Thanks, Alex,’ said Eric. ‘I did work for the Bush campaign when I was in College,’ he explained to the others, ‘stuffing envelopes for the cause.’
‘Oh, it was much more than that,’ said Alex. ‘George has been calling him on a regular basis asking him what he should say to Gorbachev.’