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are,” he says. “They fucked me.” Larry flicks the ash off the cigarette onto the floor and then takes a drag. “I got some advice for you, kid.” His words come on a carpet of white smoke. “There are three things you need to always remember if you’re gonna make it in this business.” Watching Larry is like viewing bad television. I really want to turn the channel, but there’s something about him that holds my attention. I nod my head ever so slightly. “First, always, and I mean always, work the day after Thanksgiving. It’s only half a day and it makes you look like a hero.” I signal the bartender for another beer. I can feel Larry’s stare boring in on me. He leans in close. “Second,” he says in a smoky whisper, “you need to get in with all the ten-five-Ws.”
    “The what?” I say, afraid to ask.
    “The Eskimos,” he says. I’m really confused. “Keep ’em close—they run the business. Sure, the Merrills, Morgans, and Montgomerys are all stacked with guys like you and me.” I look at him and wonder what he means by guys like me and him. I’m nothing like him. “But who do you think is in upper management, who’s pulling all the strings? It’s the ten-five-W’s.”
    “Ten-five-what?” I ask.
    “What’s the tenth letter in the alphabet? The fifth letter in the alphabet?” I use my fingers to count out the letters, J and E.
Jews?
I grew up in a town without any Jewish or black people. The only thing weknew about racism was what we saw in the movies. I drink what’s left of the beer in front of me, pick up all but two bucks of my cash. As I turn to go, I feel his hand on my shoulder.
    “Wait,” he says. “I didn’t tell you the third thing.” I turn back and look at him. His eyes are rheumy, his teeth are crooked and the color of a school bus. He pulls on his cigarette so hard that his cheeks sink. “Attach yourself to revenue,” he says while pointing his cigarette at me. “If you do that, then nobody can touch you.” He exhales and disappears behind the billow of smoke. “It’s that simple,” he says. I escape to the street and try to figure out which direction the movie theater is.

FEBRUARY 1994
    THERE’S ONE empty chair. Conference room A is on the inside of the building so there are no windows. Seven women and two men, all of whom are, more or less, my age, are already seated around the sleek oval table with comfy black chairs. The women all look attractive and alert. Most have notebooks out and pens uncapped. The two other men in the room seem a little bit more relaxed. They’re dressed just like me, in bargain suits and ties. I take the empty chair and look up at Stephanie. The smile I remember from my interview is gone. She looks stern, almost angry. She allows the silence to settle in the air. It cues the two other guys to sit up a little straighter and focus on our boss. “Welcome to Private Client Services,” she says. My uncle told me PCS is as close to the trading desk as I can get. These brokers manage high-net-worth individuals’ money instead of institutions. They are retail brokers, but their client lists aren’t your mom-and-pops down the street. They only manage money for people with ten, twenty, thirtymillion plus. “I know a few of you have already been at Morgan Stanley for a couple of weeks now and some of you”—she looks directly at me—“are starting today.”
    She begins to walk around the room. “It’s my job to train and develop you into the best sales assistants on the planet.” She stops for a moment and begins to laugh. “It’s also my job to make sure you don’t cry.” I look around to see if anyone else is laughing but no one is. She’s serious again—it’s like she has an on-off laugh switch. She continues her slow circle around us.
    “Do you know how long I’ve worked at this firm?” she asks. She’s looking directly at one of the other guys. “Twenty years. Wanna know why I’ve worked here for twenty years?