The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine (19 page)

LehmanLive didn't tell you exactly what was in a CDO, either, but it did offer a crude picture of its salient characteristics: what year the bonds behind it had been created, for instance, and how many of those bonds were backed chiefly by subprime loans. Projecting data onto the red brick wall of Julian Schnabel's studio, Charlie and Jamie went searching for two specific traits: CDOs that contained the highest percentage of bonds backed entirely by recent subprime mortgage loans, and CDOs that contained the highest percentage of other CDOs. Here was another bizarre fact about CDOs: Often they simply repackaged tranches of other CDOs, presumably those tranches their Wall Street creators had found difficult to sell. Even more amazing was their circularity: CDO "A" would contain a piece of CDO "B" CDO "B" would contain a piece of CDO "C" and CDO "C" would contain a piece of CDO "A"! Looking for bad bonds inside a CDO was like fishing for crap in a Port-O-Let: The question wasn't whether you'd catch some but how quickly you'd be satisfied you'd caught enough. Their very names were disingenuous, and told you nothing about their contents, their creators, or their managers: Carina, Gemstone, Octans III, Glacier Funding. "They all had these random names," said Jamie. "A lot of them for some reason we never figured out were named for mountains in the Adirondacks."

They made a hasty list of what they hoped was the worst crap and called up several brokers. It had been hard for them to wriggle free of the brokers who covered rich people and to get into the arms of brokers who covered big, stock market-investing institutions. It was hard all over again to escape the big-time stock market brokers and win acceptance from the people inside the subprime mortgage bond market. "A lot of people when we called them said, 'Hey, why don't you guys buy some stocks!'" said Charlie. Bear Stearns couldn't believe that these young guys with no money wanted to buy not just credit default swaps but a credit default swap so esoteric that no one else had bought it. "I remember laughing at them," said the Bear Stearns credit default swap salesman who took their first inquiry.

At Deutsche Bank they were passed off to a twenty-three-year-old bond salesman who had never had a customer of his own. "The reason I got to know Ben and Charlie," says this young man, "was that no one else at Deutsche Bank would deal with them. They had, like, twenty-five million bucks, which for Deutsche Bank was not really significant. No one wanted to pick up their calls. People were making fun of their name--they'd say, like, 'Oh, it's Cornhole Capital calling again.'" Still, Deutsche Bank proved, once again, the most willing to deal with them. On October 16, 2006, they bought from Greg Lippmann's trading desk $7.5 million in credit default swaps on the double-A tranche of a CDO named, for no apparent reason, Pine Mountain. Four days later, Bear Stearns sold them $50 million more. "They knew Ace somehow," said the Bear Stearns credit default swap salesman. "So we wound up dealing with them."

Charlie and Jamie continued to call everyone they could think of who was even remotely connected to this new market, in hopes of finding someone who could explain what appeared to them to be its sheer madness. A month later they finally found, and hired, their market expert--a fellow named David Burt. It was a measure of how much money people were making in the bond market that the magazine
Institutional Investor
was about to create a hot list of people who worked in it, called The 20 Rising Stars of Fixed Income. It was a measure of how much money people were making in the subprime mortgage market that David Burt made the list. Burt had worked for the $1 trillion bond fund BlackRock, owned, in part, by Merrill Lynch, evaluating subprime mortgage credit. His job was to identify for BlackRock the bonds that were going to go bad before they went bad. Now he had quit in hopes of raising his own fund to invest in subprime mortgage bonds, and, to make ends meet, he was willing to rent his expertise for $50,000 a month to these oddballs at Cornwall Capital. Burt had the most sensational information, and models to analyze that information--he could tell you, for example, what would happen to mortgage loans, zip code by zip code, in various house price scenarios. He could then take that information and tell you what was likely to happen to specific mortgage bonds. The best way to use this information, he thought, was to buy what appeared to be the sounder mortgage bonds and simultaneously sell the unsound ones.

The insider's artful complexity didn't much interest Cornwall Capital. Spending a lot of time trying to pick the best subprime mortgage bonds was silly, if you suspected that the entire market was about to blow up. They handed Burt the list of CDOs they had bet against and asked him what he thought. "We always looked for someone to explain to us why we didn't know what we were doing," said Jamie. "He couldn't." What Burt could tell them was that they were probably the first people ever to buy a credit default swap on the double-A tranche of a CDO. Not reassuring. They assumed there was a lot about the CDO market they didn't understand; they had selected the CDOs they had bet against inside of a day, and assumed they could do a craftier job of it. "We were already throwing darts," said Jamie. "We said, 'Let's throw darts a little better.'"

The analysis Burt gave them a few weeks later surprised them as much as it did him: They'd picked beautifully. "He said, like, 'Wow, you guys did great. There are a lot of really crappy bonds in these CDOs,'" said Charlie. They didn't realize yet that the bonds inside their CDOs were actually credit default swaps on the bonds, and so their CDOs weren't ordinary CDOs but synthetic CDOs, or that the bonds on which the swaps were based had been handpicked by Mike Burry and Steve Eisman and others betting against the market. In many ways, they were still innocents.

The challenge, as always, was to play the role of market generalist without also playing the role of fool at the poker table. By January 2007, in their tiny $30 million fund, they owned $110 million in credit default swaps on the double-A tranche of asset-backed CDOs. The people who had sold them the swaps still didn't know what to make of them. "They were putting on bets that were multiples of the capital they had," said the young Deutsche Bank broker. "And they were doing it in CDSs on CDOs, which probably, like, three or four guys in the whole bank could speak intelligently about." Charlie and Jamie and Ben sort of understood what they had done, but sort of didn't. "We're kind of obsessed about this trade," said Charlie. "And we've exhausted our network of people to talk to about it. And we still can't totally figure out who is on the other side. We kept trying to find people who could explain to us why we were wrong. We just kept wondering if we were crazy. There was this overwhelming feeling of,
Are we going out of our minds
?"

It's just weeks before the market will turn, and the crisis will commence, but they don't know that. They suspect that this empty theater into which they've stumbled is preparing to stage the most fantastic financial drama they'll ever see, but they don't know that, either. All they know is that there is a lot they don't know. On the phone one day, their Bear Stearns credit default swap salesman mentioned that the big annual subprime conference would be held five days hence, in Las Vegas. Every big cheese in the subprime mortgage market would be there, with a name tag, and wandering around The Venetian hotel. Bear Stearns was planning a special outing for its customers, at a Vegas firing range, where they could learn to shoot everything from a Glock to an Uzi. "My parents were New York City liberals," said Charlie. "I wasn't even allowed to have, like, a toy gun." Off he flew, with Ben, to Las Vegas, to shoot with Bear Stearns, and to see if they could find anyone to explain to them why they were wrong to bet against the subprime mortgage market.

CHAPTER SIX

Spider-Man at The Venetian

Golfing with Eisman wasn't like golfing with other Wall
Street people. The round usually began with a collective discomfort on the first tee, after Eisman turned up wearing something that violated the Wall Street golfer's notion of propriety. On January 28, 2007, he arrived at the swanky Bali Hai Golf Club in Las Vegas dressed in gym shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers. Strangers noticed; Vinny and Danny squirmed. "C'mon, Steve," Danny pleaded with a man who, technically, was his boss, "there's an etiquette here. You at least have to wear a collared shirt." Eisman took the cart to the clubhouse and bought a hoodie. The hoodie covered up his t-shirt and made him look a lot like a guy who had just bought a hoodie to cover up his t-shirt. In hoodie, gym shorts, and sneakers, Eisman approached his first shot. Like every other swing of the Eisman club, this was less a conclusive event than a suggestion. Displeased with where the ball had landed, he pulled another from his bag and dropped it in a new and better place. Vinny would hit his drive in the fairway; Danny would hit his in the rough; Steve would hit his in the bunker, march into the sand, and grab the ball and toss it out, near Vinny's. It was hard to accuse him of cheating, as he didn't make the faintest attempt to disguise what he was doing. He didn't even appear to notice anything unusual in the pattern of his game. The ninth time Eisman retrieved a ball from some sand trap, or pretended his shot had not splashed into the water, he acted with the same unapologetic aplomb he had demonstrated the first time. "Because his memory is so selective, he has no scars from prior experience," said Vinny. He played the game like a child, or like someone who was bent on lampooning a sacred ritual, which amounted to the same thing. "The weird thing is," said Danny, "he's actually not bad."

After a round of golf, they headed out to a dinner at the Wynn hotel hosted by Deutsche Bank. This was the first time Eisman had ever been to a conference for bond market people and, not knowing what else to do, he had put himself in Greg Lippmann's hands. Lippmann had rented a private room in some restaurant and invited Eisman and his partners to what they assumed was something other than a free meal. "Even when he had an honest agenda, there was always something underneath the honest agenda," said Vinny. Any dinner that was Lippmann's idea must have some hidden purpose--but what?

As it turned out, Lippmann had a new problem: U.S. house prices were falling, subprime loan defaults were rising, yet subprime mortgage bonds somehow held firm, as did the price of insuring them. He was now effectively short $10 billion in subprime mortgage bonds, and it was costing him $100 million a year in premiums, with no end in sight. "He was obviously getting his nuts blown off," said Danny. Thus far Lippmann's giant bet had been subsidized by investors, like Steve Eisman, who paid him a toll when they bought and sold credit default swaps, but investors like Steve Eisman were losing heart. Some of Lippmann's former converts suspected that the subprime mortgage bond market was rigged by Wall Street to insure that credit default swaps would never pay off; others began to wonder if the investors on the other side of their bet might know something that they didn't; and some simply wearied of paying insurance premiums to bet against bonds that never seemed to move. Lippmann had staged this great game of tug-of-war, assembled a team to pull on his end of the rope, and now his teammates were in full flight. He worried that Eisman might quit, too.

The teppanyaki room inside the Okada restaurant consisted of four islands, each with a large, cast-iron hibachi and dedicated chef. Around each island Lippmann seated a single hedge fund manager whom he had persuaded to short subprime bonds, along with investors who were long those same bonds. The hedge fund people, he hoped, would
see
just how stupid the investors on the other side of those bets were, and cease to worry that the investors knew something they did not. This was shrewd of him: Danny and Vinny never stopped worrying if they were the fools at Lippmann's table. "We understood the subprime lending market and knew the loans were going bad," said Vinny. "What we didn't have any comfort in was the bond market machine. The whole reason we went to Vegas was we still felt we needed to learn how we were going to get screwed, if we were going to get screwed."

Eisman took his assigned seat between Greg Lippmann and a fellow who introduced himself as Wing Chau and said that he ran an investment firm called Harding Advisory. When Eisman asked exactly what Harding Advisory advised, Wing Chau explained that he was a CDO manager. "I had no idea there was such a thing as a CDO manager," said Eisman. "I didn't know there was anything to manage." Later Eisman would fail to recall what Wing Chau looked like, what he wore, where he'd come from, or what he ate and drank--everything but the financial idea he represented. But from his seat across the hibachi, Danny Moses watched and wondered about the man Lippmann had so carefully seated next to Eisman. He was short, with a Wall Street belly--not the bleacher bum's boiler but the discreet, necessary pouch of a squirrel just before winter. He'd graduated from the University of Rhode Island, earned a business degree at Babson College, and spent most of his career working sleepy jobs at sleepy life insurance companies--but all that was in the past. He was newly, obviously rich. "He had this smirk, like,
I know better
," said Danny. Danny didn't know Wing Chau, but when he heard that he was the end buyer of subprime CDOs, he knew exactly who he was: the sucker. "The truth is that I didn't really want to talk to him," said Danny, "because I didn't want to scare him."

When they saw that Lippmann had seated Eisman right next to the sucker, both Danny and Vinny had the same thought:
Oh no. This isn't going to end well
. Eisman couldn't contain himself. He'd figure out the guy was a fool, and let him know it, and then where would they be? They needed fools; only fools would take the other side of their trades. And they wanted to do more trades. "We didn't want people to know what we were doing," said Vinny. "We were spies, on a fact-finding mission." They watched Eisman double-dip his edamame in the communal soy sauce--dip, suck, redip, resuck--and waited for the room to explode. There was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the show. Eisman had a curious way of listening; he didn't so much listen to what you were saying as subcontract to some remote region of his brain the task of deciding whether whatever you were saying was worth listening to, while his mind went off to play on its own. As a result, he never actually heard what you said to him the first time you said it. If his mental subcontractor detected a level of interest in what you had just said, it radioed a signal to the mother ship, which then wheeled around with the most intense focus. "Say that again," he'd say. And you would! Because now Eisman was so obviously listening to you, and, as he listened so selectively, you felt flattered. "I keep looking over at them," said Danny. "And I see Steve saying over and over,
Say that again. Say that again.
"