both. So was the pep talk.
It was all too much. The Dow Jones would probably hit two grand today, but Corrine thought it was crazy. The economy was in dreary shape, inventories high, GNP slow, but the Dow kept shooting up. It was a kind of mass hypnosis. Castles in the air.
She had to be careful what she said around the office. Wall Street was pumped up. It was like a cocaine jag. Everyone grinning fiendishly, talking too fast, not quite focusing on anything. The clients, too. Especially the clients. Corrine tried to moderate their greed, urging them to look for real value. Though she wasn't above listening to her superstitions, her basic resource was simple math. If an established company was selling at ten times earnings, it was probably a better bet than an upstart going for fifty times earnings. But everybody wanted instant gratification. They wanted to be junior arbitrageurs. They wanted risk without downside. Big beta factors and guaranteed return. They wanted to get in on a takeover prospect right before it went into play and double their money in three days. They wanted whatever was in the headlines that week, preferably on margin. They wanted to be able to tell their dinner guests they sold short on a turkey. They wanted sex and drugs and rock-and-roll.
Russell was the worst. When he and Corrine finally agreed to divide their tiny investment capital in half, he started trading frequently with Duane. Lately Russell had mentioned he wanted to get into options. She told him she didn't want to hear about it. Her portion, less than two thousand—very big deal—stayed in the money market.
The supervisor was messianic on the subject of phone technique. This part Corrine tuned out. After the meeting, Duane walked her back to their adjoining work stations. He was blond, athletically proportioned, a man of his times, and his predominant mood was up. He, too, was a little too much in the morning.
"Any hot ones today, beautiful," he asked.
Corrine shook her head. They walked down a long aisle flanked with work stations, computer terminals with video screens glowing green with numbers. They had been through the training program together and now shared a secretary. Corrine liked their bantering camaraderie, although she was afraid she might have to throw a little cold water on him soon. The problem with Duane, it seemed to her, was that someone had once told him that he was dashingly handsome, and he'd taken it to heart. There was a kind of self-consciousness to his insouciant gestures and his attention to dress that made him seem comic. Maybe it was just youth. He was almost five years younger, having arrived here straight out of Dartmouth—-all the kids now rushing headlong into professions they'd chosen in the cradle. Whatever happened to trying things out? Corrine had tried Europe, law school and Sotheby's and felt like the last of a species—almost the oldest broker at her firm. No country for old men, this business.
Duane was talking about a hot tip, biotech.
"Have you checked it out," she asked, just to say something.
"Looking real good, numberwise." As an analyst he was a little flighty, though he was doing well in the current flighty market.
She stopped in front of her own station, demarked by flimsy partitions on three sides, a token of her seniority. "Cold-calling," Duane asked.
"Eventually." She sighed. It was what she hated most about the business, ambushing strangers on the phone, trying to sell them something they didn't know they wanted. At first that was all she did, but now she at least had a roster of regular customers, though not yet enough that she could afford to stop soliciting.
"Look what I have," Duane said, extracting a stapled sheaf of papers from a folder. He held it between his fingers, dangling it like a treat, and made the cooing sound of a pigeon.
"What is it?"
"Only an up-to-the-minute mailing list of every dentist in New York State."
"Where did you get that?" Doctors and
It was all too much. The Dow Jones would probably hit two grand today, but Corrine thought it was crazy. The economy was in dreary shape, inventories high, GNP slow, but the Dow kept shooting up. It was a kind of mass hypnosis. Castles in the air.
She had to be careful what she said around the office. Wall Street was pumped up. It was like a cocaine jag. Everyone grinning fiendishly, talking too fast, not quite focusing on anything. The clients, too. Especially the clients. Corrine tried to moderate their greed, urging them to look for real value. Though she wasn't above listening to her superstitions, her basic resource was simple math. If an established company was selling at ten times earnings, it was probably a better bet than an upstart going for fifty times earnings. But everybody wanted instant gratification. They wanted to be junior arbitrageurs. They wanted risk without downside. Big beta factors and guaranteed return. They wanted to get in on a takeover prospect right before it went into play and double their money in three days. They wanted whatever was in the headlines that week, preferably on margin. They wanted to be able to tell their dinner guests they sold short on a turkey. They wanted sex and drugs and rock-and-roll.
Russell was the worst. When he and Corrine finally agreed to divide their tiny investment capital in half, he started trading frequently with Duane. Lately Russell had mentioned he wanted to get into options. She told him she didn't want to hear about it. Her portion, less than two thousand—very big deal—stayed in the money market.
The supervisor was messianic on the subject of phone technique. This part Corrine tuned out. After the meeting, Duane walked her back to their adjoining work stations. He was blond, athletically proportioned, a man of his times, and his predominant mood was up. He, too, was a little too much in the morning.
"Any hot ones today, beautiful," he asked.
Corrine shook her head. They walked down a long aisle flanked with work stations, computer terminals with video screens glowing green with numbers. They had been through the training program together and now shared a secretary. Corrine liked their bantering camaraderie, although she was afraid she might have to throw a little cold water on him soon. The problem with Duane, it seemed to her, was that someone had once told him that he was dashingly handsome, and he'd taken it to heart. There was a kind of self-consciousness to his insouciant gestures and his attention to dress that made him seem comic. Maybe it was just youth. He was almost five years younger, having arrived here straight out of Dartmouth—-all the kids now rushing headlong into professions they'd chosen in the cradle. Whatever happened to trying things out? Corrine had tried Europe, law school and Sotheby's and felt like the last of a species—almost the oldest broker at her firm. No country for old men, this business.
Duane was talking about a hot tip, biotech.
"Have you checked it out," she asked, just to say something.
"Looking real good, numberwise." As an analyst he was a little flighty, though he was doing well in the current flighty market.
She stopped in front of her own station, demarked by flimsy partitions on three sides, a token of her seniority. "Cold-calling," Duane asked.
"Eventually." She sighed. It was what she hated most about the business, ambushing strangers on the phone, trying to sell them something they didn't know they wanted. At first that was all she did, but now she at least had a roster of regular customers, though not yet enough that she could afford to stop soliciting.
"Look what I have," Duane said, extracting a stapled sheaf of papers from a folder. He held it between his fingers, dangling it like a treat, and made the cooing sound of a pigeon.
"What is it?"
"Only an up-to-the-minute mailing list of every dentist in New York State."
"Where did you get that?" Doctors and
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