The Big Killing (4 page)

Donahue & Co. was located downtown in Hanover Square, one of those little, unlikely oases in the Wall Street area. The offices looked down on a tiny park, a rectangle of grass and benches and pigeons, a multitude of pigeons. It was a mecca at lunchtime in good weather. Brokers and operations people, sales help and traders, ate lunch on the benches and exchanged information. The hottest tip, gossip about other brokers, inside information about a particular firm or stock. Every day was market day. Drugs were bought and sold openly amid food vendors who also crowded the small space. One could indulge in Chinese, Mexican, Indian, Greek, Italian, Spanish, or good old American hot dogs, all purchased from pushcarts crowding into the area around noon every weekday.

The Hanover Square building was a renovated modern version of old splendor. Columns painted to look like marble, trompe l’oeil vaulted ceilings.

Donahue & Co. took a whole floor. The elevator doors opened right into a reception area. Wetzon had gotten off the elevator and looked around the drab, almost unfurnished room. A bench with brown Naugahyde cushions and three metal and plastic chairs, artlessly arranged. The floors were covered with indoor-outdoor carpeting. The color was an ugly pale mustard. In these buildings the leases generally called for some floor covering, and this was probably as cheap as Donahue could get. A scarred black metal reception desk stood on the far side of the small space to the left of the elevators; a sign on the wall over the desk read JACOB DONAHUE & CO., INC. A modern phone system stood on the desk, blinking and burping, but no one sat there.

Wetzon had stood for a while, then looked back at the bench. Perhaps she should sit and wait. She was a little early There were some magazines,
Barron’s, Forbes
, and
Business Week
, on a square glass-topped table with a chrome base. On top of the table with the magazines was a hideous pink marble ashtray of formidable size. The ashtray was brimming with butts, and the harsh odor of cigarettes hung in the air. It was the end of another long day on Wall Street.

She didn’t sit down. She had the distinct feeling that dirt and ashes would rub off on her.

Next to the reception desk was a door that presumably led to the boardroom and the rest of the offices. It didn’t look much different from garment-center offices, but why should it? Wasn’t that the business that Jake Donahue had come out of?

She was thinking about what she’d read regarding Jake Donahue and his origins when the elevator doors opened and a young woman got off. She was wearing tight jeans and stiletto-heeled sandals. Smoke trailed from the cigarette in her fingers. She had dozens of little gold chains of varying lengths around her neck, and the rest of her was barely concealed in a tight red T-shirt with the words BROKERS DO IT ON THE FLOOR printed on it in big black letters. Her hair was a shaggy mane, streaked blonde on blonde, and she carried a paper bag, food or sodas or cigarettes.

“Hi,” the blonde said amiably. “Can I help you? I guess Jackie took a break.” Jackie was obviously the missing receptionist.

Wetzon looked at her and felt uncomfortably overdressed.

“Yes,” Wetzon said. “I’m here to see Barry Stark.”

“Sure, he’s got the office on the right, straight back. Just come through here.”

She threw open the door, releasing such a blast of noise that Wetzon involuntarily took a step backward, assailed by a cacophony of voices, raised and subdued, blaring phones, newsprinters and teletype machines, squawk boxes droning information about particular stocks. She stepped into the room, and the young woman bumped the door shut behind her with the seat of her jeans.

“Straight back there.” The blonde pointed past a dense clutter of desks. It seemed for all the world like one of those thirties prison movies with the long rows of dining-hall tables and row upon row of men crowded together, all moving in different directions. But this was the Wall Street version, so there was a sprinkling of women, and the table contained Quotron machines and black looseleaf “books,” which were the brokers’ customer records. Everyone was pitching product, and the noise was deafening. Here, in the case of Jake Donahue, the product was their new issues. Donahue was bringing companies public at an almost alarming rate, and there was so much demand for these new issues that Donahue & Co. didn’t have to syndicate any shares to the other houses. They kept it all in house, divided it among their special customers, and the broker’s share of fifty percent on gross commissions was an exceptionally attractive hiring tool. In addition, Wetzon knew, Donahue had been writing big checks for up-front money deals to get the best, the hottest salespeople on Wall Street.

Cardboard coffee containers, crumpled paper bags, half-eaten danishes, probably left over from breakfast, sandwiches, soda cans, and Chinese food containers lay amid the chaos on the desks. The air was a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, and the smell in the room was a stale stew of sweat, perfume, cigarettes, fried rice, and, “Greed,” she said, “don’t forget the common denominator.” She had spoken out loud, but in the din, no one could hear her.

So this was what Barry had left Merrill for. This and over two hundred thousand dollars.

The brokers were dressed in everything from jeans and T-shirts to suits similar to hers, but these were definitely in the minority. She could not differentiate among the women, some of whom were brokers and some sales assistants. Looking around, Wetzon decided that those who looked like expensive call girls must be the brokers. Their on-phone and off-phone attitudes conveyed an electric sense of power. The average age in the room couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. And a quick count told her there were over seventy people jammed into this small area.

Wetzon had to admit there was something exciting about it, as sleazy as it appeared, the excitement of making money.

Brokers with phones crooked between ear and shoulder were writing up ticket after ticket as she passed by, and they contacted one another by shouting back and forth.

“Ten thou, sure, yeah, more play.”

“Listen, I’ll try to get more for you, but I can’t promise. Everyone wants in.”

“Up two points today. More tomorrow. Yeah. Well, you could sell five, take profits, and ride the rest out.”

“We’re all going to get rich on this one!”

Wetzon knew that five did not mean five shares and probably not even five hundred shares. The big players were attracted to the new-issues market. They might have a regular account with Merrill Lynch or Shearson for the CMA or FMA—the cash-management accounts—but for the excitement of the ride, they came to Donahue’s.

Barry’s office did not have a door, but it was an office with a window, and just as cluttered with papers, books, and discarded food containers as the boardroom she had just left. Barry was in shirtsleeves, smoking a cigar, his jacket on the back of his chair, his feet up on his desk. Behind him, the grimy window looked out on yet another grimy window. Obviously his production didn’t warrant a scenic view of Hanover Square. This was still Wall Street, and the old Wall Street area was a warren of narrow streets and tall, old buildings wearing the dirt of generations. Firms like Jacob Donahue left the brick-and-mortar grandeur and stylish interiors to the major houses. It all boiled down to dollars and cents, or better, dollars and sense. Keep overhead down, impress people with the money you make for them, and they won’t care if you’re working from a phone booth on the corner of Forty-second and Broadway. The net-net was that it worked.

Barry waved at her with his cigar hand when he saw her in the doorway, motioning toward the chair. Or at least what was probably a chair. You could hardly see it under the stack of newspapers and stock prospectuses. She waved back at him but remained standing.

“Yes, babes, I promise you,” Barry was saying expansively, “this one will go through the roof. Wait till you hear this....” He lowered his voice. “They have this new process, a thermometer that’s attached to a home computer, that will tell you everything from your cholesterol to whether you’re pregnant.” He stopped and laughed wickedly. “Really, darling? I had no idea.” He made mocking movements with his head, acting out for Wetzon. “You’re kidding. I certainly couldn’t tell from your voice. Well, that’s not old, come on now. How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you was, that’s what old Satchel Paige used to say.” He listened and laughed again. “Well, of course I know who Satchel Paige was.”

He was making sweeping motions with his hand, so Wetzon finally picked up the litter from the chair and put it on the floor. When she straightened up, he was smirking at her, and she realized she had bent over without thinking, like a dancer, from the hip instead of with bent knees.

Ah, well, he was so obvious. She sat. The only reason she was here was to see the place and take Barry out for a drink to thank him for the list of Merrill brokers he had sent her.

“So, sweetheart, why not take ten thou then?” he was saying. “The downside risk is only slight. It’ll open at five and I guarantee you’ll double your money.” His other phone rang. “Stay with me, sweetheart.” He tucked the receiver into his shoulder and picked up the other phone. “Stark.” He frowned. “Only two thou. I’ve got someone who’ll take ten. Don’t think too long.” He hung up that phone and spoke again into the first. “So what do you say, darling?”

Wetzon was fascinated by him. He was really good, really persuasive. Either he didn’t know, which is unlikely, or, more likely, he didn’t care that it was illegal to promise people they’d make money in that way.

He’d gotten his order and hung up the phone. “Beautiful, bee-u-tee-ful,” he crowed. “I—”

A noise like a police siren drowned out his self-satisfied voice. Wetzon jumped, startled. “What was that?”

“It’s the close. Jerry Walsh does it every day at four. Just part of the action around here.”

“Was the market hot today? Everybody in the boardroom seems really energized.”

“The truth is,” Barry replied, sitting up, feet back on the floor, rolling down his shirtsleeves, “we don’t give a shit, excuse me, about the Dow, and the Big Board, or the other exchanges. We only care about the OTC market and specifically our stocks. That’s what I like about this place. We concentrate. We specialize. It’s where the big bucks are. This is where you make the big killing.”

A skinny kid with acne scars stuck his head in the open doorway. “Any more orders for me, champ?”

“Yeah, hold on there, let me write up old lady Zimmerman’s order.” Barry scribbled something quickly and added the last sheet, thrusting the pile at the order clerk. “Here you are, my son,” he said grandly, waving the thick stack of orders. “And these are only from the last hour.”

“Bless you, father,” the clerk said, grabbing the orders and departing.

From the boardroom came a blast of rock music and singing. When Barry and Wetzon came out of Barry’s office, everyone was boogying in the narrow aisles.

“Man, do I need that drink,” Barry said.

Over the squawk box Jake Donahue’s voice, raspy and deep: “A record day, boys and girls, so everyone gets five hundred extra bonus just for today’s work, and for the sales assistants, fifty.” There was a great shout. “Keep it up.”

Barry quirked an eyebrow at Wetzon. “Not bad, huh? A far cry from Mother Merrill, who never even gave me a pat on the head when I opened more accounts than any rookie except Georgie in the Metro area.”

“Generous of Jake to share that way,” Wetzon agreed.

“He can afford to be,” Barry said without gratitude. “We make a lot of money for that guy. Where would he be without us? At least he knows that.”

As they worked their way through the frenzied boardroom, they passed the sexy little sales assistant in the tight jeans who had directed Wetzon earlier. She was jiggling to the music, her hair flying, bosom bouncing. Barry slid his hand down her compact backside, and she grinned at him.

“She’s a cute kid,” Wetzon said, trailing after Barry. “I guess she’s got a fun job working for all of you crazy brokers—”

“Who, Margie?” Barry said over his shoulder. “You gotta be kidding. Margie isn’t a sales assistant, she’s a broker.”

In spite of herself, Wetzon had been taken by surprise. “I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, she’s one of the biggest producers in the office. Last week she grossed over fifty thou, which means she kept about twenty-five for herself.”

“I think I’m in the wrong business,” Wetzon had said, stunned.