Money to Burn Read Online Free PDF

Silvers’ managerial prospects. You go in like a West Point plebe, and if you survive the stress, lack of sleep, and psychological games, you come out feeling like the newest member of an elite Wall Street fraternity—or like a made man in the mob. At the end of my three weeks, I was given the investment-banking equivalent of the secret handshake and Sicilian oath: I was invited to join management. But then came the kicker, straight from the lips of the assessment team leader: “And of course, we will assist in reassigning your book of business.” At Saxton Silvers, you were either a producer or a manager, not both. Investment advisors were expected to give up their clients in order to join management, which as far as I was concerned meant that management was more like the crock at the end of the rainbow—though my change of heart was not at all driven by money.
    Well, not exactly.
    But it had been one of those times in my life when the pot of gold was a distant second—to power. Or perhaps efficacy was a better word. Give up my clients? It seemed like a page out of the psychological playbook of Jim Jones, the doomsday cult leader who’d told his followers to hand over their wallets and follow him to Guyana, making it physically and financially impossible for them to say “See ya” when it came time to drink the Kool-Aid. So I told management to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.
    Well…not exactly.
    Luckily, my mentor had stepped in. A deal was struck. I was allowed to keep my best clients—I was still a producer—and the firm created a management position that I could hold until I agreed to drink the Kool-Aid, so to speak, and assume a more traditional post. Keeping one hand on the production side while transitioning into management wasn’t really a breach of company policy, we rationalized, because my newly minted position had no history, no precedent.
    My new charge was to position Saxton Silvers as the leader on Wall Street for investment in environmentally friendly and socially responsible companies. This, of course, was an instant source of sidesplitting laughs around the watercooler. Someone even taped the name M IKE Q UIXOTE to my office door. It was a tough assignment, made even tougher by the difficulty in defining a “green” investment. One of the Harvard environmental fellows on my team calculated that each second of time spent on the Internet contributed 20 milligrams of CO 2 to the environment, which is to say that if Al Gore invented the information superhighway, the inconvenient truth is that the carbon footprint of the IT industry is equal to that of the aviation industry. I let the academics argue over that one, and instead focused on turning the “windmill division” into a serious profit center for the firm.
    “Here we are, sir,” said Nick.
    The limo stopped. Nick jumped out to get my door, but I beat him to it. No matter how many times I told him that I could open my own door, he was too programmed to stop himself.
    “Don’t go too far,” I told him. “I won’t be staying long.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    It was after seven o’clock, and I was already late. I knew Mallory wasn’t going to be happy with me. After nearly two years of marriage she was beyond tired of these black-tie events, especially on crazy days like this one when I had to have my tux delivered to the office and Mallory had to ride alone and meet me there.
    My phone rang as I entered the lobby. This time it was my Asia team leader calling about the surprising surge at the morning bell for the Tokyo Financial Exchange.
    “Mr. Cantella?” I heard a man say as I rounded the corner.
    I quickly finished the call and tucked away my cell. In front of me were two men, each wearing a trench coat and an exceedingly serious expression.
    “Who wants to know?” I said.
    The older man flashed a badge. “Agent Fairchild,” he said. “FBI.”
    My heart skipped a beat. Nothing prepared you for a moment like this,