With a mock-naughty face, she hides the beer behind her back and giggles. "Don't tell him you bought me a beer. He'll flip out."
"Deal," I say conspiratorially. "That is, if you tell me what you meant when you called Ranieri a drongo."
She tells me...
I double over in laughter. Things are definitely looking up.

? ? ?

SO, FOR THE NEXT FORTY MINUTES, I'm treated to a private performance of Fiona Hensleigh's one-woman, off-Broadway show that might well be titled The Greenwich Nanny.

She riffs animatedly about her adventures since being plucked from Christschurch, New Zealand and plunked down in Greenwich, Connecticut USA, in the very vortex of history's most excessive bull market. And she dissects the archetypes of the Connecticut Gold Coast in delicious detail: the beauty-shop addicted, Prada-obsessed prima donnas, whose sense of entitlement is without limitation; the insecure, cigar-smoking Masters-of-the-Universe wannabes, whose self-worth is measured by the girth of their Range Rovers; and their worshipped, fretted-over, unlovely offspring, spoilt beyond belief, and taught at the youngest age that viral disrespect for authority is a virtue.

As Fiona speaks, I’m picturing the Ranieri household, and it’s a fascinating insight into my rival's secret world...I bide my time, awaiting an angle, a vulnerability to use against my blood enemy. Fiona tantalizes me with the possibility that she has some juicy tidbits about Ranieri that she wants to share, but she doesn't trust me enough to give up the goods. Smart girl.

..........

“What’s your number?” As I walk off the train backwards, I score the digits of Ranieri’s nanny’s cellphone, knowing full well there’s a strong degree of likelihood that I’m going to . . . well, hook up with the nanny of my mortal enemy.

The doors clatter shut, and, dazed and benumbed, I watch the train gathering its whining momentum out of the station.

? ? ?

The full version of Stephen Rhodes’ “AT THE TOP OF HIS GAME” will appear in Wall Street Noir, an analogy of financial fiction edited by Peter Spiegelman. Noir will be published by Akashic Books, and will be available in bookstores in June 2007.

To pre-order Wall Street Noir click here

With their game faces off, the commuters look positively miserable. They are die-hard junior execs with their eyes still on the prize, feverishly making love to their Blackberries and Dell Inspirons and Motorola RAZRs.
I make my way up to the bar.
"Two Absoluts in a cup, straight, wedge of lime."
Just as I get my cocktail, the train pitches suddenly to the left, and someone collides with me, nearly upending my double-shot.
A striking blonde girl in a pastel sun-dress murmurs an apology around a dazzling smile. "So sorry."
I'm taken aback. This is a radiant burst of genuine friendliness, and I have an instant attraction to this girl. It's more that she seems a beacon of positive energy on a suddenly very hostile planet. She makes me think of lemon meringue pie.
“It was my fault, actually,” I offer.
“I suppose it doesn't matter much either way, does it?” The girl holds my eyes for a moment while I try to place the accent -- Australian, I guess, with the vanishing 'r's'. I’m intrigued.
"My name's Mark," I say, surprised at my own cojones.
"Fiona."
"Ah. Can I get you a drink, Fiona? A Coke?"
"I'd much prefer a Foster's, actually. With a vodka chaser." With that, Fiona flips open her cellphone to smile and dial. When I return with the drinks, I tune in to bits of her conversation. It is peppered with an exotic slang, putting me in mind of A Clockwork Orange. "It's choice . . . That's spot-on. . . Did you dip-out for a moment or what? . . . What a complete saddo she turned out to be. . . Ah, Viv, Ranieri can be such a drongo sometimes . . ."
Ranieri. Could it be?
And now I realize I've seen her somewhere before—on the trading floor, maybe. But how?
Fiona accepts the shot and the beer and slugs down four quick throatfuls — we have a party girl here.
"Kia ora, baby" she says. She snaps the cellphone shut, and turns to me. "That was my mate, Vivica. She's my cozziebro. I trust her with my deepest secrets." Fiona hoists her beer in a toast. "Thanks for your kindness. I'm not used to that, especially in New York."
"It's nothing really. Are you from Australia?"
"Australia? How insulting.”
“I didn't mean any offense -- “
“No worries, I'm from New Zealand originally. But for the last year, I've lived in Greenwich."
"I live in Greenwich also." I struggle to sound casual. "I couldn't help hear the name 'Ranieri'. Would that happen to be Howard Ranieri?"
"Yes," she says in amazement. "I live with Mr. Ranieri."
"You what?"
She choke-laughs, and a geyser of imported beer spews forth, making her laugh even harder. "That came out completely wrong. His family, I should say, I live with his family. I'm an au pair. The Ranieris are my host-family in America."

More to follow tomorrow…

To pre-order Wall Street Noir click here

As if a switch is turned on, the trading floor becomes electrified, crackling with high-voltage activity. The discordant brays of traders fill my ears:
"I'm choking on micro-gamma decay on my long vol position, and unless they rally I'm gonna be achin' like there's no tomorrow — "
"Johnny Meyer, pick up the double-donuts!"
"I called Tommy at DB for a chin-strap in the double-Monday nasty — the bid's gone to a bad neighborhood — "
"I took the bid up a noogie from 10.2 to 10.25 and oh-fived a sweet-one pick-off of the crowd. Am I a hammer, or what?"
This is in my blood, the thrill and agony of trading derivative securities. There's no Betty Ford clinic for this addiction, nor would I voluntarily twelve-step myself away from this high. Come Monday, if Ranieri succeeds in taking this world away from me, I will wish him a particularly painful strain of testicular cancer.
I slide into the Aeron chair at my trading turret. “Morning, Terri. Any news on your mom?”
“She's getting much better, thanks for asking.” My assistant is Terri Aronica, a sweet-natured girl from Staten Island. Her freckled presence on the trading floor is akin to a gazelle’s amongst lions, so I'm highly protective of her. In return, her loyalty is beyond question. “She's coming out of the hospital this weekend.”
“Good. That's great to hear.” I try to sound casual. “Hey, listen, Compliance is all over me to do my semi-annual supervisory thing. Can you pull all the personal trading records of Howard Ranieri for the last two years? And tell the back office I need it over the weekend.”
“Sure thing,” When Terri says it's a sure thing, I know she means it.

? ? ?

TO ALL EQUITY PERSONNEL. . .
From Howard Ranieri . . .

It is with deep regret that we announce Mark Barston's resignation from the firm, effective immediately. As Mark steps down as co-head of Equity to spend more time with his family and pursue other opportunities, please join us in wishing him the best and thanking him for effectively teaching me everything I know, which kindness I repaid by stabbing him in the back . . .

It is six hours later, and I'm mentally composing my resignation announcement. It's customary on Wall Street to extend the courtesy of ghostwriting the memo announcing one's departure, but I’m finding little joy in my imaginings.

More to follow tomorrow…

To pre-order Wall Street Noir click here.

I wheel around to my friend from HR. "Your work is done here, Brian."
"It is?" There is a look of palpable relief on Brian Horgan's face.
"Go back to your office, check your e-mail for further instructions."
Ranieri erupts. "Just what the hell are you trying to pull—"
"It's not my doing. Sanderson has taken an interest in this—"
"Bull. He's in Hong Kong."
"Exactly. And Sanderson says stand down. Nothing is to happen until he returns to London on Monday."
Ranieri scrutinizes me. "Does Becker know about this?"
"Why would that matter?"
Ranieri scowls venomously, then wheels his Herman Miller Aeron chair over to his flat-panel computer screen. His lips move as he reads the fresh e-mail from Sanderson, then he slams his open palm on the surface of his desk.
I turn to Horgan. "Like I was saying. Until this gets sorted out, you're free to go."
Ranieri grumbles with a dismissive wave. "Whatever." With a surreptitious wink, Brian Horgan reassembles the file and departs.
My co-head makes a big show of closing the door and sealing us off from the rest of the trading floor. "Swift move. You knew I was leaving for Barcelona with my family tonight, didn't you?"
"Guess you'll just have to postpone your victory dance."
"Maybe . . ." Ranieri regards me with a feral leer, "but you can postpone the inevitable only so long, Sparky."
I lean back and give him a smile that's . . . well, yes, call it self-satisfied. "Let's recap, shall we? Four months ago, you pull some strings in London with Ian Becker—your Harvard roommate—to conjure up some do-nothing job that suggests to senior management that you're not utterly useless. Lucky me: Since I happen to drive the lion's share of revenue in the U.S., Becker drop-kicks you into my sandbox as a co-head. Says you've got a lot to learn and you're 'here to help.' Instead, what happens? You steal my ideas, my team, my business, my revenues. You systematically bad-mouth me to Becker and the rest of senior management as 'redundant' and 'not a team player.' You and Becker wait for my mentor to be incommunicado somewhere so you can pull this lame-ass coup d'etat.” I shake my head in disgust. "You're not even worth keeping around to order lunch for my people."
Ranieri leans back calmly. "On the one hand, screw you for messing up my vacation. At the same time, I commend you for pulling off that last-minute clemency from the powers-that-be. Very creative." A slow smile spreads across his face. "But guess what? Turns out your guy is getting a bullet to the head himself from senior management. So looks like we have a do-over first thing Monday morning."
"We done here?"
"For now."
"Good." I bolt upright and regard my mortal enemy with utter contempt. "You'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to the desk and make some money. I'll leave you to whatever it is you do all day."
Bite me. And I'm out of there.

More to follow tomorrow…

To pre-order Wall Street Noir click here.

At The Top of His Game

By Stephen Rhodes

ON THE DAY THEY CONSPIRE TO PUT A BULLET IN MY HEAD, I experience an epiphany.

My epiphany is this: perhaps it's some law of nature, but once you're at the top of your game, everyone becomes your enemy. Rivals, friends, lawyers, lovers, superiors, subordinates – every last one of them. They plot and scheme and come after everything that matters to you, everything you love and care about.
Maybe it’s the Darwinian nature of the Street itself. A fourteen-year career in finance wears away at your soul, as assuredly as a stream against limestone. It pushes you to a place where you don't fully recognize who you are, or how you got here. Everyone around you becomes a stranger, including—no, especially— your own wife. Working sixteen-hour days in those glistening glass towers in Manhattan, engaging in mortal combat with some of the planet's brightest and most power-obsessed who have trained their full concentration on destroying you and stealing the business you've built up over the years — well, it hardens you. Wall Street eats its young, and today the beast has a particular appetite for a certain thirty-six-year-old maverick with seventy-eight people reporting to him (which would be me).
So today they plan to execute me. How do I know this? Well, last night at 9:30 p.m., an urgent BlackBerry message instructed me to report to Howard Ranieri's office at 7:30 a.m. sharp for a mandatory meeting. That e-mail was no surprise; a head's-up had come from a friend in HR that my employment would be terminated during this impromptu meeting.
My response? Bring it on. Bring it on.

? ? ?

Ranieri is now more than forty minutes late for his own meeting. Typical move for this passive-aggressive, hair-challenged, no-talent clown. I should mention that Ranieri is my co-head in the Equity Structured Products group.
Outside Ranieri's office, the phones on the trading floor twitter relentlessly. This morning, Goldman Sachs has issued a dire report on certain Latin American economies. As a result, the overseas financial markets are getting walloped.
The twentysomething stress addicts that populate the trading floor gaze into their Bloomberg screens seeking divine guidance. I hear the voices of my people reporting losses in the overseas markets like breathless wartime correspondents witnessing heavy casualties from the front lines. The Footsie is getting whacked, hammered, slammed, smashed, crushed, drilled, smoked, spanked, roasted, sewered, bashed. Boom boom, out go the lights.
Ranieri's tardiness is driving me to distraction. It's Friday. I've got a dinner party at the Honeywells' tonight. And I've got a wife who may have been cheating with a kickboxing instructor. Do I really need to have Ranieri playing with my head in the moments before he gleefully fires me?
Abruptly, Howie breezes through the door of his office. "Sparky, glad to see you're here," he burbles as if he's five minutes late for a tennis game. "I'm really truly sorry about this, but—"
"No, you're not."
"Come again?"
I pronounce each syllable slowly. "I said, 'No, you're not.' Meaning, no, you are not sorry. You are the polar opposite of sorry. You kept me waiting on purpose."
"Touche, Sparky." Ranieri's laugh is a brutish grunt. "Maybe you're kind of right about that."
"Not a problem. I passed the time by reading all your e-mails."
Ranieri inspects me to see whether I'm serious, but my poker face is inscrutable.
"Anyhoo," Ranieri says with narrowed eyes, "let's move on to the reason we're here. You know Brian, I presume."
I turn around and see Brian Morgan, a VP from HR, skulking in the doorway, craving invisibility. Brian is a good guy in my book; he was the one who gave me the head's-up about this meeting. I take note of the thick Redweld tucked under his arm—my personnel file, no doubt.
"Um, good morning, Mark." He winces as he says this. It's obvious this is anything but.
"Of course I know Brian," I say breezily. "We've worked together for what ... six years?"
"Yeah, six years," he confirms.
"Six long years recruiting the best structured products group on the Street, from the ground up."

More to follow tomorrow…

To pre-order Wall Street Noir click here.

In four meetings this week, senior executives at investment banks waxed lyrical on the trend of endowments buying derivatives-based investments. For as long as I've covered the market it's been the goal of these same people to get the endowments on board. And so it's pleasing to see the results.

In the April issue of Structured Products I will report on just how advanced some of these endowments have become in their use of structured products.

Not only do they put their European counterparts to shame by the sheer size of funds under management; their derivatives prowess could arguably put a number of major banks, hedge funds and investment firms to shame too.

This week, however, I've been truly impressed by some educational initiatives coming from the wholesale distributors. I won't name the organisations just yet - you will have to wait until the April issue of Structured Products to see what impressed me.

At the core of all the educational drives I've heard about this week is a desire to see products truly understood by broker dealers.

It got me thinking - are European IFAs and others still in the dark when it comes to structured products? Could the European markets learn a thing or two from their American counterparts? Are Europeans now just complacent about their product knowledge?

Any thoughts let me know...

Apparently there is one man, in Canada, who really knows his stuff. According to my contact in New York there is a chap in the land of maple leaves who loves structured products so much that he put CAD 100 million of his own money into a pretty simple index tracking product late last year. Let's call him Mr. Rich.

In fact, my contact also calls him Mr. Rich - the reason being that he was referred by a third party and part of the deal was anonymity.

Just three months on and his investment has done him proud, it turns out. And it's also done the industry proud.

I really do wish I could tell you who the institutions in question are. But suffice to say you would know them.

I also wish I could tell the story, perhaps with a few more in depth details, to those journalists who seem to enjoy deriding the markets I write about.

So here's to you Mr. Rich - and I'm sure there are plenty more like you out there.

ABN Amro Eco Markets provides investors with some pretty neat info. The website also shows the growing interest in socially responsible investing - a trend we noted some months back.

Socially responsible investment (SRI) assets under management broke through the EUR1 trillion mark at the end of 2006 representing 10% to 15% of total European funds under management, according to the European Social Investment Forum (Eurosif).

This increased demand for SRI solutions is now mirrored in the structured products market as heightened awareness is persuading more institutions to boost their product range and prepare their first offerings.

ABN Amro is not the only provider to push some interesting themes, but, to me at any rate, its informative website shows that it really is at ease with the themes in question.

If your bank has a similar website I'd like to know about it...