offering, our I-bankers would have attended his funeral en masse. Not so much to mourn or pay their respects. It would have been to kick-save their fees, the holy grail of finance.
There were no pending deals. Charlie’s money management firm, insanely lucrative, was too small for our bankers to notice. The capital markets thundered forward Wednesday without Annie and me.
Well, almost.
Chloe ran the desk and fielded all calls. Among them, one came from a CEO named Thayer. Another came from Sutherling, a sandy-haired energy banker with a bourbon-on-rocks voice. His team had just edged out the empty suits at Morgan, and we were on a six-month countdown to take Thayer’s company public. Through Chloe, Sutherling insisted I meet with the CEO and pitch him on SKC’s wealth management capabilities. She dutifully scheduled an appointment for Thursday, good timing for Thayer, who was here on business from the West Coast.
Crappy timing for me. I had planned to visit Evelyn’s and Finn’s graves in Rhode Island that day. Need to spend more time with the family, I thought in a black moment at Charlie’s graveside.
I also had professional misgivings. Many regarded wills, durable powers of attorney, and the other tools of mortality as my industry’s response to Ambien. Not me. Estate planning was the single most important topic to discuss this far in advance of an IPO. Thayer could save a bundle in taxes by establishing trust accounts. It was my job to describe the benefits and outline his options. One problem. The financial side of death was hardly my favorite topic at the moment.
How do I keep my shit together?
Deferring the meeting was not an option. Thayer’s net worth would total something north of $100 million after the offering. Appointments with that kind of wealth were too hard to win.
Plus, there was Sutherling to consider. Investment bankers were notorious for drop-everything mentalities. Putting Thayer on hold would piss off Sutherling, not a winning strategy. Bankers could shower anyone with referrals, not just me. And my PCS colleagues would rip out drills and interrupt root canals midway to meet with someone of Thayer’s net worth.
One hundred million is size, real size.
Thursday morning came all too soon. The police had left a voice mail for me sometime the previous night. Distracted, underprepared for a meeting, I couldn’t deal with them. I sat in one of our mahogany and leather conference rooms, smiling at Thayer and considering where to begin.
Ordinarily, prospect meetings all started the same way. We would two-step the small talk. It took about ten minutes to circle the dance floor, me probing for common interests and gauging personal chemistry.
Next, I would produce inch-thick pitch books stuffed with glossy exhibits and assorted propaganda from the firm’s marketing library. The presentations could be tailored to specific needs. There was no end to our choice of topics. Zero-cost and put-spread collars, portable alpha, bond durations, or correlation coefficients—we had something mysterious for everyone. SKC’s graphs looked great, and our lingo sounded smart.
Unfortunately, there had been no time to assemble a pitch book. Nor had I persevered through my grief and researched Thayer’s company. That was a problem. It was more important to connect in Thayer’s comfort zone, his area of expertise, rather than mine. The reason: Outside of New York City,America distrusts Wall Street. What do you expect with the subprime mortgage fiasco?
No pitch book. No preparation. That Thursday morning, I felt “nekkid.” For all the meetings through the years, for all the business won and asses kicked over at Goldman and Merrill, I still suffered from butterflies when meeting new prospects. All-star athletes often barfed before big games. First meetings with wealthy prospects brought the same anxiety, even to top producers.
One hundred million
There were no pending deals. Charlie’s money management firm, insanely lucrative, was too small for our bankers to notice. The capital markets thundered forward Wednesday without Annie and me.
Well, almost.
Chloe ran the desk and fielded all calls. Among them, one came from a CEO named Thayer. Another came from Sutherling, a sandy-haired energy banker with a bourbon-on-rocks voice. His team had just edged out the empty suits at Morgan, and we were on a six-month countdown to take Thayer’s company public. Through Chloe, Sutherling insisted I meet with the CEO and pitch him on SKC’s wealth management capabilities. She dutifully scheduled an appointment for Thursday, good timing for Thayer, who was here on business from the West Coast.
Crappy timing for me. I had planned to visit Evelyn’s and Finn’s graves in Rhode Island that day. Need to spend more time with the family, I thought in a black moment at Charlie’s graveside.
I also had professional misgivings. Many regarded wills, durable powers of attorney, and the other tools of mortality as my industry’s response to Ambien. Not me. Estate planning was the single most important topic to discuss this far in advance of an IPO. Thayer could save a bundle in taxes by establishing trust accounts. It was my job to describe the benefits and outline his options. One problem. The financial side of death was hardly my favorite topic at the moment.
How do I keep my shit together?
Deferring the meeting was not an option. Thayer’s net worth would total something north of $100 million after the offering. Appointments with that kind of wealth were too hard to win.
Plus, there was Sutherling to consider. Investment bankers were notorious for drop-everything mentalities. Putting Thayer on hold would piss off Sutherling, not a winning strategy. Bankers could shower anyone with referrals, not just me. And my PCS colleagues would rip out drills and interrupt root canals midway to meet with someone of Thayer’s net worth.
One hundred million is size, real size.
Thursday morning came all too soon. The police had left a voice mail for me sometime the previous night. Distracted, underprepared for a meeting, I couldn’t deal with them. I sat in one of our mahogany and leather conference rooms, smiling at Thayer and considering where to begin.
Ordinarily, prospect meetings all started the same way. We would two-step the small talk. It took about ten minutes to circle the dance floor, me probing for common interests and gauging personal chemistry.
Next, I would produce inch-thick pitch books stuffed with glossy exhibits and assorted propaganda from the firm’s marketing library. The presentations could be tailored to specific needs. There was no end to our choice of topics. Zero-cost and put-spread collars, portable alpha, bond durations, or correlation coefficients—we had something mysterious for everyone. SKC’s graphs looked great, and our lingo sounded smart.
Unfortunately, there had been no time to assemble a pitch book. Nor had I persevered through my grief and researched Thayer’s company. That was a problem. It was more important to connect in Thayer’s comfort zone, his area of expertise, rather than mine. The reason: Outside of New York City,America distrusts Wall Street. What do you expect with the subprime mortgage fiasco?
No pitch book. No preparation. That Thursday morning, I felt “nekkid.” For all the meetings through the years, for all the business won and asses kicked over at Goldman and Merrill, I still suffered from butterflies when meeting new prospects. All-star athletes often barfed before big games. First meetings with wealthy prospects brought the same anxiety, even to top producers.
One hundred million
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