RANK: A NOVEL OF WALL STREET
BY
BEN MATTLIN
Chapter 1
Chip
Goldman is a new-media securities analyst.
It's a Thursday afternoon in May, and the tall thirty-three year old is looking out his large corner-office window
at the pell-mell energy of Madison Avenue fourteen stories below. Chip works
for Simons & Co., an investment-banking and brokerage firm in midtown Manhattan, and right now, as usual these days, he's
thinking about the I.I. rankings.
After the blowup of so
many Internet startups, some of which he'd touted, Chip has been able to slide smoothly into covering satellite TV, digital
MP3 music, and related entertainment-technology stocks. Nobody much notices the
change. No prying questions are asked.
The Blodgetts of Merrill and Grubmans of Salomon go down in flames, but not Chippy.
Chippy glides on.
Ah-choo! Where are the fucking tissues?
Except for his spring allergies,
Chip's in great physical shape; he even works out occasionally. His blond hair
is conservatively cut short to favor his long, angular face. Chip could have
a steady girlfriend or even a wife, but he's never found someone worthy. Someone
to inspire his devotion the way a good stock does.
Besides, Chip is in love
with his job--and his firm. Simons & Co. has nearly as storied and grand
a past as its Wall Street competition and is definitely equal in prestige. It's
known for discovering misunderstood or small "emerging" companies in specialized fields.
Biotech, "healthy living" consumer products and other market niches. The
firm's founding partners chose a northerly address, originally about two blocks south of the current one, to "keep clear of
the invidious influences that can undermine the purity of the Exchange"--as company literature expounds. The New York Stock Exchange, that is, some fifty blocks south.
Chip locates a small pack
of Kleenex in the pocket of his navy-striped trousers and blows his nose. With
gusto. Easing back into his chocolate-brown leather chair, he breathes more easily
now. At home he has a prescription nasal spray.
He hasn't used it in months. Chip reflects briefly on spring allergies
as a measure of the passage of time. He's been thinking a lot about the passage
of time lately.
In the past few years Wall
Street has changed. Those changes now seem to be at an end. Firms on and off Wall Street paid large legal settlements to the New York Attorney General's office and
the S.E.C., plus reorganized to suit new regulations and avoid even the perception of conflicts of interest. By shoring up what used to be called the "Chinese wall" between research and investment banking, securities
firms "fixed" the supposed problem of tainted research. The dust has settled. And Chip's devotion to the business and his firm has actually grown beyond infatuation
to a deep-seated quasireligious life-choice. He believes in capital markets. He believes the capitalist structure--that
is, the development of free enterprises in a free-market economy--is good for society. It creates successful companies which give people jobs, sell things people need and reward shareholders. Chip likes the
feeling of being an active contributor to the engine that makes our society hum. It's
not feeding the hungry or healing the sick, but it keeps things moving, products shipping and selling, people working and
shopping and advancing.
In May, however, in Chip's
line, the brakes come on. Briefly but emphatically, in honor of the start of
voting for the I.I. rankings.
Chip, once a "runner-up,"
has never ranked. Which he suspects
is why Dylan was hired to assist him.
The phone rings. It's Chip's other assistant, Doris, reminding him of a conference call this evening with colleagues in
Hong Kong. That said, may she go home now?
Of course, Chip answers, and wonders why she's asking his permission. A
formality, no doubt.
He waits till he's heard
her hang up before replacing his receiver. It wouldn't do to hang up hastily
on Doris. Doris is basically a secretary but he shares her with others. That in a way gives her added power as she can, if pressed, pit one superior against
another.
Doris is a different kind
of assistant from Dylan. Dylan is an associate analyst . . . a kid recently graduated from Stanford who was hired by the powers that be to aid Chip in his research--with
the goal of getting Chip and crew named among the top three research outfits in the new-media space. The top three being the best of the best, as measured by Institutional
Investor magazine's annual survey of the biggest mutual- and pension-fund managers and other expert, professional investors.
The results aren't published until October, which makes for a long summer, but
they're nonetheless momentous. Not that investors are the firm's chief client
base or revenue source. Revenue comes mainly from underwriting stock and bond
offerings for corporations, and advising them on mergers and acquisitions. Yet
the recognition having a stable of ranked analysts can bring to a firm like Simons & Co. is priceless. It attracts all sorts of clients to these profit-making centers.
It can help a relatively small firm like Simons & Co. stay on financial radar screens.
In fact, the potential
payoff is so great that any analyst who comes out on top in the survey immediately gets an extra hundred-thou a year, plus
bonuses. Or so it's rumored. Chip
doesn't actually know for sure. Still, for a popularity contest it's incredibly
lucrative.
More importantly, Chip
deserves to win. This year especially. He's learned from past mistakes and pulled out a stellar performance. He's timed stock fluctuations perfectly and given clients extra personalized attention. They should be grateful. In case they've forgotten, he's kept
a sort of diary over the past 12 months. It goes like this: "First quarter. Accurately forecasted broad market movements. Nailed three rapid-growth stocks. Hosted
client luncheons with key guest speakers. Took investors to meet C.E.O.s at company operational centers. Conducted seminars
and tutorials. (Details below.) Second quarter (to date). Pinpointed three more money-making ideas. Avoided two disastrous
duds. Visited all clients nationwide. Reviewed individual portfolios and performed bespoke research on request. (Details below.)
. . . "
It's a damned good record so far.
Chip sighs, rubs his itching
eyes, and then clicks his computer mouse until the flat-screen monitor shows his business Rolodex. It's quieted down outside, in the corridor and neighboring offices.
People are starting to go home. That's
good, he thinks.
-- -- -- --
What it really means to Chip to rank in I.I.: You win the Wall Street beauty contest. Instead of Miss America
it's Mr. Wall Street. You get the biggest write-up in the magazine, with your
photo or a caricature of your face, and are the envy of every other analyst who's ever read a Ten-Q. The media calls you whenever it wants an opinion about the market or about your industry. You get quoted in the Journal and the Times, and are invited to participate in panel discussions on CNBC and before congressional task forces. Investors and corporations flock to your door to become your clients. And noticing all this, every firm wants to hire you now. Your
quarterly bonuses jump dramatically because your employer fears losing you. Soon
you can demand almost any perk you want.
It's the Academy Awards and your bar mitzvah rolled into one!
-- -- -- --
Mustering an extra dose of chutzpah, Chip picks up
the receiver and abruptly dials the first of what will be at least thirty calls to his most senior clients. It's late-afternoon; the stock market has closed for the day. If
he gets voice mail, it's easier. He's got his pitch down to a thirty-second sound
bite anyway. But he's rejected sending it as a blast voice mail. The personal touch is better.
Jesus! He's as jittery as a kid asking a girl out on a first date!
He hears the first ring. The second.
They have to love us. They have to vote
for us. They have to realize how important it is for us to win this
thing. It's in everybody's best interests . . . The more prestige we gain, the better we'll be able
to serve our clients.
Lingering traces of self-doubt
evaporate as the other end is picked up.
A male assistant.
"She won't be in till Monday,
Mr. Goldman," says the pleasant-sounding young masculine voice.
"I see," Chip responds. "Will she be checking her voice mail?"
"Likely. Shall I connect you?"
Chip reminds himself this
client manages one of the biggest funds out there--and that means her vote counts more than others. The bigger the account, the more heavily it's weighted in I.I.'s tally.
He should have saved her for last, practiced on some less significant investor.
"Sir?"
"Sorry. Yes please." Chip holds his breath a moment.
***
