The trading floor quiets, but not for one second do I turn red or falter or say um, because that would be expected. I clear my throat, raise the mic to my mouth, and pull King’s hand from my clothing.
“Trading halted this morning on a New York Stock Exchange stock that isn’t on our coverage list,” I begin, and see King positioning himself as a buyer, typing bids to send out into the universe, “but it looks like we will be making a market in it today. It’s called Emergent Biosolutions, symbol EBS. King is trading it today and it’s going higher.” I look at King’s screens. “In fact, it looks like it’s up ten dollars on the open, a thirty percent rise. They make an Anthrax vaccine that’s in high demand but they also anticipate groundbreaking discoveries in their immunoglobulin research. Immunos assist the body’s own immune system to deal with disease. It’s the future of cancer therapies if you ask me.”
“Who asked you?” someone shouts, but it’s a friendly shout and everyone’s either making notes or already calling a client.
“Their research pipeline looks pretty full with immune therapies so really, it’s exciting stuff. Looking at the chart, it’s got an ascending triangle pattern with increased volume. There’s over thirty million shares trading. Go sell some of them.”
I smugly hand the mic back to King, who grins. “This is why I’m in love with you. What other banana on this floor can spit stats out like that?”
“All I know is that Cheetah’s going to get a double on this one.”
“And when they’re ready to take their profit, you send them right to the King to sell, okay?” he says while making some weird grab for me.
“I wanna kiss your sweet ass right now, Cassidy.”
“It’s McElroy,” I say, “I changed my name almost three years ago. Behave yourself before you end up needing an Anthrax vaccine.”
“Was that a threat? You hot, hot gurrll,” he pants, and makes another grab for me, but I am gone. Back to my side, my set, my safety zone.
Traders are my partners on these client accounts and we are assigned to each other. While I work with research analysts to get ideas, talk to the clients, wine, dine, travel, and grovel, when the clients finally do decide to either buy or sell a stock, we need a trader. The guy who smacks gum and slaps male and female ass all day in some primate version of high five, who continually belches in post-lunch competitions, who feels powerful enough to publicly humiliate professional women as a hobby. He must also watch screens all day, stay in touch with the stocks our clients care about, and punch numbers into a machine without making errors. For this he is handsomely rewarded with one-half of my commissions. When an investment goes sour, he’s never remembered. The salesperson, that would be me, takes the heat, and merciless berating. From my point of view, it’s a good deal to be a trader and yet very few women are. The few we have are corralled together into what is called Estrogen Row. One older woman, for reasons nobody remembers, sits totally isolated at a desk the traders refer to as Menopause Manor. But back to EBS.
I get to call a happy client today. Things are looking up not only because of the money Cheetah has made, but because bonus time is looking sweeter and sweeter. I send a quick email to Bruce letting him know his wife is having a great day. While some men find the idea of their partner making a pile of money intimidating, my idealistic yet logical husband gets wildly turned on in the few hours before he starts remembering how toxic he believes money is.
I call back Tim Boylan, and he offers to buy me lunch. He wants to bring along his new chief investment officer, a guy he just hired. We agree to do it the following week.
“What made you so sure about this Emergent company McElroy?” Tim asks me.
“One of my college housemates is now a doctor. She had me read about immunotherapeutics and it just made sense to me. She loved what she saw. They have a manageable research budget, are profitable, and have a stock that was trading softly. It didn’t seem that risky, you know?”
“You’re so modest,” he says.
“I’m so lucky,” I say, and really mean it.