Hedge funds love coke and hookers – but most of buy side guys are shy- they would never about it and since hedge funds are known to be very secretive but every once in a while you’ll find a hedge funder or a hooker who is all about Kiss and Tell. And we did…. again
Turney Duff, who cut his teeth at The Galleon Group before its founder, Raj Rajaratnam, was put away for insider trading, recounts days spent trading millions of dollars of other people’s money with his ‘head throbbing, tequila oozing from his pores and his crumpled Prada suit reeking of cigarettes’ after another wild night of excess.
‘As the opening bell rings, every muscle in my body clenches,’ he writes in his tell all memoir ‘The Buy Side: A Wall Street Trader’s Tale of Spectacular Excess’ of one of the many days-after-the-night-before in summer 2002, at Argus Partners. The book is being exclusively previewed by The New York Post.
‘I sit upright and try to focus on the eight computer screens in front of me. There are 25 orders on my desk, each from five to 10 million dollars and involving some sort of investment decision. My head throbs.
The trading desk is surrounded by glass. I work in a fish bowl. I’m in the middle of a newly renovated office on Park Avenue . . . As the opening bell rings, every muscle in my body clenches. I sit upright and try to focus on the eight computer screens in front of me. There are 25 orders on my desk, each from five to 10 million dollars and involving some sort of investment decision. My head throbs.
If I can just make it to lunch, I tell myself. A cheeseburger with a fried egg will help. I try to see how many minutes I can go without looking at the clock — 16 is the record for the day. I can’t keep my eyes open. I just need to make it to the closing bell.
2:55 p.m. . . . 3:17 p.m. . . . 3:58 p.m. . . . I count down the final minute like a Canadian in Times Square on New Year’s Eve . . .
Forty-five minutes later: There’s an ounce of cocaine piled in the microwave. An additional few thousand dollars’ worth of blow sits on a single plate in the kitchen. The place is littered with Grey Goose bottles, ice, cups, and straws for snorting. We call this East Side apartment the White House for obvious reasons, but it’s more like a Wall Street crack house. Randy and James [two sell side traders] live here. Everything is provided and paid for, compliments of the sell side … They like to please their clients. Tonight they were kind enough to order in: Chinese and Mexican escorts. I watch as two American Express black cards fly through the air across the kitchen. They land right on top of the blow. James uses the cards to chop the cocaine as 12 guys roll up their shirtsleeves. One of the hookers, Adelina, a large-breasted firecracker, drags a finger across my chest. Two traders who work for a hedge fund in Connecticut — and raced here by car service — grab the Asian twins and head to the bedroom. Dr. Fish, a 300-pound sales trader who grew up in the Florida Keys, lays claim to Adelina and escorts her to the other back bedroom . . .
By 8 p.m., the last of the guys are putting on their coats. They have wives, girlfriends and children to go home to. I try not to judge, but I tell myself that when I’m married and have kids, I won’t carry on like I do now. I’m left standing with Gus, Randy and James. The four of us head out for the night.
The Wetbar in the W Hotel is easy. James and Randy are regulars, and we’re afforded full access … The place is dark and sexy. Candlelight is the primary form of illumination. Hotel guests camp out on the back wall, but the Street owns the middle, and that’s where the action is — if you call girls looking for a husband “action.” The four of us sit in the corner booth. Before we left the apartment, we each took a spoonful of blow and dumped it into our cocaine doggy bags . . .
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