Born to Steal: When the Mafia Hit Wall Street (12 page)

Louis had to get some new cold-callers—and fast. The firm was going to pay for ten cold-callers, so Louis and Benny had to
start recruiting.

At nineteen, Louis was one of the younger middle managers on Wall Street—and surely one of the very few, at that or any other
time, who was listed in the NASD’s Central Records Depository as an “assistant.” By law, brokerage house managers had to hold
not only the Series 7 broker license, but also the Series 24 license required for individuals with the task of managing others.
Such formalities were obeyed by the chop houses only when it wasn’t too inconvenient.

“They were going to pay for ten cold-caller salaries, so we put an ad in the paper and that’s how we found Sally Leads, Chris
Ray, Pete Restivo, everybody. We had ads in the
Post
, the
News
, the
Times
. Didn’t do the
Staten Island Advance
. Benny didn’t like the kids from Staten Island. He thought they were fucking thugs. They were. They were not good workers.
Some of them were good, but most were like punks. I hated hiring kids from Staten Island. Too close to home anyway. They’d
come to your house when you owed them money. It was a pain in the ass,” said Louis.

The crew system fostered unit cohesiveness, intramural competition, and loyalty. Louis and Benny hired kids who were very
much like themselves—hungry outer-borough kids, mainly Italian and Jewish.

“Me and Benny used to do the interviews. They’d come in, and we’d ask them stupid questions—Roy Ageloff questions. ‘Why you
here?’ ‘I seen the ad in the paper.’ ‘You know what this is? You sell stock here. Can you be on the phone all day?’ I wouldn’t
even know what the hell to ask,” said Louis.

“And then if we thought they had potential we hired them. Give them a shot. And make them work too. Work hard. We kept them
if they worked hard. Some of them would come in and they’d say, ‘Oh, it’s not for me. It’s only a hundred a week,’ blah blah
blah. The ones that didn’t complain, some of them said, ‘Can I make money if I open accounts?’ Some of them were just determined.
They wanted to do it.”

For the ones with potential, persuading them to take the job wasn’t too hard. All Louis had to do was tell the truth:

“I used to tell them, ‘I’m nineteen years old. I got my own apartment. I got a car. I make ten grand, fifteen grand a month.’”

“Half these people, you could hear it in their voice. They’re willing to send the money. They’d give signs. I’d really pay
attention to what they said, because a lot of the times it was a sign that they were willing to invest.

“A guy would say, ‘How exactly do you spell that?’ I’d know he was done right after he said that. I knew he was interested.
Or, ‘What kind of commission do you charge?’ I’d say, ‘Nothing.’ Yes, absolutely nothing except for a two-point chop I won’t
tell you about. It was weird. These people were just naÏve. I guess they just didn’t know anything out there. Probably still
don’t know.

“To this day, I would bet any sum of money that people are still stupid. I used to tell Benny we could make a million dollars
by getting a million leads, we hire thirty cold-callers, and have them just calling everybody, and ask them for ten dollars.
Ten dollars in a check by mail. And I bet you any amount of money that after five months we’d accumulate a million bucks.
We ask them for ten dollars and if they send a dollar it would be good enough. Call a million people. That’s how stupid these
people are.

“We had stacks of leads from Shearson Lehman, D. H. Blair. We wound up getting Hanover leads; we got Hanover microfiche, which
was big. And it was a great edge for us, because on the microfiche we would get the statement, so you would see the stocks
that they bought. And I’d say, ‘Remember the last time I spoke with you, you told me you owned Mr. Jay’s and Porter McLeod
at Hanover Sterling?’ It would give you, like, an edge. ‘How are those stocks doing?’ ‘Ehh, they’re doing shit.’ ‘Well, why
don’t you transfer that account over to me, work with a real guy?’ They would do it. They would fill out ACAT [account transfer]
forms.

“I would never call anybody who lived in Jersey or New York. Never. My best states were Utah, Texas, Arizona, Virginia. Michigan
was one of my favorite states too. Michigan was good. Stupid people up in Michigan. California too. Not Los Angeles but on
the outskirts of California. Sacramento. Utah was my favorite state. I think that was my top state. Because they were completely
fucking retarded. They have like nine wives, they’re Mormons. They’re retards. You call them from New York, and they’re like,
‘Where are you?’ And I’d say, ‘I’m a spit throw away from the New York Stock Exchange.’ And they’d say, ‘Really! How is it
up there in New York?’

“They’re fascinated by the whole concept of it. Utah, Arizona, Texas—but only certain parts of Texas. Dallas, never. San Antonio,
never. Houston, no. Parts of Texas like Fort Worth. Just shithole parts of Texas. I would never call big cities. I would never
call Salt Lake City. Because these were big cities; people would know better. I’d call towns. Rural places, not suburbs.

“I used to see Dallas on the lead, I’d go, ‘Nope.’ Places like Fort Worth were okay. I went to Fort Worth once. Went into
the store, asked the lady for five packs of Marlboro. Her kids are running around barefoot. She went, ‘Fahv packs a Marlboro?’
Like people bought a cigarette at a time. I wanted five packs and she almost dropped dead. She says, ‘Fawteen dollars,’ like
it’s the biggest sale of the century.

“In the more eastern states, people were closer in touch. When you called out West, it’s just a different fucking world out
there. And some of the South people too, like Tennessee. I had this guy, an old black guy from out there. This guy was good.
We lost him money. I remember him calling up, he had this black Tennessee accent, and he says, ‘I’ll tell you, boy, you fucking
New Yorkers, man. You lose me all my money.’ I remember him calling up, and he had this old scratch in his voice.

“The furthest I’d been was Ocean City, New Jersey. I didn’t even know these people existed out there, out in the country,
or even had money. It was actually fascinating for me at first. I used to tell Stefanie and my mother, ‘I spoke to somebody
in like Montana, Ma!’ Then it became like a ritual, like second nature to me. And then I used to know what to say to a guy
who lived in Utah. Or I would know the different ways to talk to these people. And if they were old or if they were young
how to talk to them. Like the old men, I used to hard-sell them. Pump them up. Because they used to like it, the old men.
I’d say, ‘Come on, Bob! What the fuck! Grab your balls!’

“Old men I used to treat like that. And they’d go, ‘Ahh, you fucking New York broker!’ They’d be like crazy old men. The young
guys I used to talk to in a more sincere, greedy kind of way.

“I used to love talking to the old guys. They were my favorite. Because they used to abuse you and send you the money too.
They’d be like, ‘Ehh, you’re busting my balls! I’ll send you the goddamn hundred grand.’ It was like a comedy. It was. But
it’s the truth. It’s sad but it’s funny.

“They’d call up and they’d say, ‘You charged me thirty bucks too much on the commission,’ and I’d say, ‘I’ll send you a personal
check for that thirty bucks,’ and I would send it to them. And they would get the thirty bucks. And they’d say, ‘Wow, that
was great. I’ll send you a hundred thousand now.’

“Just dumb. I’m not saying I was such a great salesman that people would send me money, because yeah, I was a good salesman,
but come on! I would get off the phone with some of these people after they sent me a hundred thousand and I’d say, ‘What
the fuck is wrong with this guy? Is he a retard?’ And they would call back the next day and ask, ‘Did you get that check?
I sent it out.’ Yeah, I got it, I spent it already. I just bought myself a new car. So obviously I got it, right?

“I would give them my home number, and it would be like the best thing that ever happened. ‘Only a picked few of my clients
get my home number.’ Since you sent me over a half a million, and you actually hooked up my phone line for me. These people
were just naÏve to the world I guess, you know. They live in the boondocks of Texas or Arizona, where dirt roads lead to their
house. They just don’t know no better.

“I don’t know if it’s greed. I don’t know what it is with these people. Why would you send somebody half a million dollars?
Us being New Yorkers, somebody tells us we’re going to make a million dollars, we’d say, ‘Get the fuck out of here. Right,
give me the half a million and then I’ll give you half a million.’ We’re very shrewd. But they’re not shrewd. It used to surprise
me how the fuck they got their money. Like, how did this idiot get fifteen million? What did he do for this fifteen million?
Because he’s a complete moron. If he’s sending people a million dollars over the phone, he’s not going to have that fifteen
million for long.

“We used to get attorneys to send us a couple of hundred thousand. We had an attorney in Utah. This guy Alan, I forget his
last name. He was an attorney, like a trial attorney. We got him at Robert Todd. Supposed to be a smart guy, sends us seven
hundred thousand for fucking dogshit stocks. Over the phone without meeting us. He’s an attorney. He should be more shrewd
than that to be an attorney. Boy, I’d hate to be in fucking Utah having him represent me.

“Sometimes their wives would pick up the phone, and they’d tell me, ‘He’s out in the crop.’ Out in the field in their crop.
Sometimes they couldn’t even get him, and I used to picture this guy having like six hundred acres of land, and his wife saying,
‘The New York broker called,’ and him saying, ‘You didn’t tell me! Gee!’ And him running to the phone, from six miles out
in the field, running back to the phone.

“And I used to laugh about it too. I used to cover the phone and say, ‘She’s getting him. He’s fucking four miles out in the
field. He’s gonna run back to the phone, Ben. Watch.’ And I used to know that if he came to the phone at that particular moment,
if she got him to come to the phone, he’s done! He’s good for a hundred grand. Came all the way from his fields to the phone.

“They’d be farmers, or they’d be retired and have all this money. We had this guy, John Kiwalski. He was in computers and
he actually engineered computers for some company. He sent us like three hundred thousand. I used to ask him about himself,
and he had a wife, two kids, three kids. He had a nice house. I always asked them what kind of car they drove, and I would
write it down. Because you know how the guy is living. He had a Jaguar. And I remember pitching this guy and saying to myself,
‘This guy’s got to be a smart guy. He builds computers.’ But he can’t even find the stocks I’m giving him on the computer.

“They’d say that—‘I couldn’t find that stock in the paper.’ And I’d say, ‘Well, it only goes in the paper if it trades more
than a hundred thousand shares.’ That’s not true! And they would believe it. Or I’d say, ‘What paper you looking in?’ They’d
say, ‘I’m looking in the
New York Times,’
and I’d say, ‘No, you have to get the
Journal
.’ They’d say they couldn’t get the
Journal
out there, and I’d say I’d send them a copy of the
Journal
. And I’d never send it. Just a fucking joke.

“The best client Benny and me had at Robert Todd was Stormin’ Norman. That’s what we called him, Stormin’ Norman. Stormin’
was like eighty-nine. We used to call up and he’d say, ‘Yeahhhh, how’s my account?’ Talking like he’s dying. And we used to
keep pushing him for more money. He used to call up and say, ‘We need some money back down here.’ And I’d say, ‘I need another
fifty from you to even start to send you money back.’ He was from someplace out West. He was good, Stormin’ Norman. We had
like two hundred thousand of his money, lost him like ninety thousand.

“He was a nasty old man. But he liked me. He liked me on the phone. When I used to call him, he’d say, ‘Ehhhhhhh, what are
you doing up there in that New York shithole?’ He was a crazy old man. And I just started calling him ‘Stormin’ Norman.’ I’d
say, ‘Stormin!’ And he would send money like it was going out of style. I got checks from him that I didn’t even ask him for.
And then I would do trades in his account, and he would get a bill, and not remember that he didn’t even tell me to do the
trade. He’d get a bill for like forty-six thousand, he’d call me up and say, ‘Hey, I got a bill here for forty-six from you
guys up there.’ And I’d say, ‘Stormin’, last week you told me to do the trade,’ and he’d go, ‘I’ll send the check, then.’
And he’d just send a check.

“It was ridiculous. Where did these people come from? I used to say, ‘Ben, this is crazy, man.’ Stormin’ was in Pacific Rim
Entertainment, and Net Optix, two Robert Todd stocks. And then we put him in California Quartz warrants. They were a dollar,
we were getting paid something like thirty cents.

“So one day I called him up. Somebody answers the phone and says, ‘Norman passed on.’ And I say, ‘Ohhh.’ I was really upset
about it, you know? Me and Benny almost cried. We wrote sixty tickets on his account not even ten minutes after we got off
the phone. I says, ‘Benny, UT [unauthorized trade] him. The whole account.’

“We UT’d his account, we went and we celebrated. I remember we were cheering, ‘Stormin’ Norman! He’s dead!’ We just wrote
tickets and churned his account. Sold, bought, sold, bought, and just made commissions. The account got down to about thirty
grand and we made all the rest in commissions. People called, and I said, ‘I’ll send you out the account statement.’ And that
was that. Dead issue.

“Norman was dead, and that was that.”

The chop house brokers and cold-callers lived in their own exblue-color, upwardly mobile nouveau-everything world, separated
from the rest of the Street—the Real Wall Street—by differences in class and education, and by the fact that the chop house
brokers just didn’t give a shit about anything outside the chop house world.