Greg Smith in "The Sweet Smell of Sachs Excess."

Ex-Goldman Worker Said To Seek Book deal

The New York Times

3/23/12

A literary agent, Simon N. Scheister, meets aspiring author, Greg Smith, in the kind of fancy, but bad, restaurant that impresses people with no taste.

SMITH

I see this book as a coming-of age story. A young man gets the job of his dreams, investment banker at Goldman Sachs, only to discover that all they care about is money.

SCHEISTER

Unless the age he’s coming of is twelve, we’ve got a problem.

SMITH

Why?

SCHEISTER

Every knows that bankers are greedy slobs.

SMITH

I didn’t.

SCHEISTER

No one thinks that Wall Street exists for any purpose except making rich people richer.

SMITH

I did.

SCHEISTER

Don’t get me wrong. Stoking the furnaces of American industry is noble and makes a great mural. It just makes a lousy book.

SMITH

But what about Wall Street’s fall from grace? It’s epic. Especially at Goldman Sachs, which was known for its high standards. Their corporate culture was the secret sauce that made them great. Not anymore. What’s happened to them is an American tragedy.

SCHEISTER

Not without a murder. Know someone who was dispatched – preferably with an oar to the head?

SMITH

Of course not.

SCHEISTER

Hmm. Would you consider killing yourself?

SMITH

Excuse me?

SCHEISTER

Death Of A Bond Salesman. It reeks American tragedy. But it may put undue pressure on your writing style.

SMITH

In what way?

SCHEISTER

“Secret sauce?” That was fresh when MacDonald’s was new.

SMITH

Thank you, Mr. Schuster –

SCHEISTER

Scheister.

SMITH

But, I’m not sure –

SCHEISTER

Greg, may I call you Greg, I’m trying to help you. But you’ve got help me. I buy the whole fall from grace thing, I do. But, take it from one who knows, it’s not the fall that sells book, it’s the hitting bottom. What kind of wretched excess can you give me? Kinky sex? Boardroom depravity? If it’s lurid enough and we package it right, I may be able to arrange an advance.

SMITH

An advance? I was published in The New York Times. My name was on the evening news. I expect a huge advance.

SCHEISTER

I don’t want to promise anything, but an advance in the high two figures is not out of the question.

SMITH

I’m beginning to think a book is out of the question.

SCHEISTER

You discourage quickly.

SMITH

Unless I’m paid enormous sums of money on a regular basis, I discourage instantly.

SCHEISTER

The writer’s life may not be for you.

SMITH

I don’t want to be a writer. I want to write a best seller.

SCHEISTER

How about self-help?

SMITH

There’s nothing wrong with me.

SCHEISTER

For other people. If you can tell them how to get a job at Goldman Sachs –

SMITH

That’s the complete opposite -

SCHEISTER

Stay with me, Hemingway. People want to know, they crave knowing how you got hired at Goldman Sachs: the hard work, the preparation, the personal dedication, they’ll read it all twice if they think it’ll help them. Throw in some tips on rising in the ranks and I think we’re talking about the kind of money you want.

SMITH

I’m sorry, Mr. Schuster –

SCHEISTER

Scheister.

SMITH

I seemed to have wasted your time.

SCHEISTER

And I’m sorry, Mr. “Smith,” but you’re not the only former Goldman executive who wants to write a book. I’m not a leg breaker, believe me, I’m strictly into the smooth angles of this business, but I have an offer from a former chairman of Goldman, who was also a governor and a senator. He needs a lot - I mean a bushel - of money very fast and is willing to write what is necessary.

SMITH

This “self-help” book . . . how positive does it have to be?

The Marshal Falcon.

The headline in today's (3/29/12) New York Times reads, Inheritance For Astor Son Is Cut by Half/Settlement Ends

Dispute Over $100 million dollar Estate. So, it may be a good time to reprint my blog post, The Marshal Falcon (TFT 10/13/09) and thereby reacquaint ourselves with Brooke Astors's son, Anthony D. Marshall and the blonde limpet he made legal, but not respectable, by marrying, Charlene.

A brisk, October morning. Anthony Marshall, 85, and his wife, Charlene, 64, stand facing each other in the parlour of their seventeen-room Park Avenue duplex. Flames lick and rollover in the fireplace, but the temperature of the room remains arctic because Marshall has just been convicted on fourteen counts of Grand Larceny and Conspiracy to Defraud. He plundered the estate of his mother, 105-year-old heiress and philanthropist, Brooke Astor, while she was helpless from Alzheimer’s disease. Marshall is free on bail, but faces a sentence of up to twenty years. With his drooping eyes and sagging jowls, he looks like a bloodhound in a bespoke suit. Charlene looks like Liz Smith from Hell.

CHARLENE

If you get a good break, you’ll be out of Tehachapi in a couple years.

ANTHONY

Where?

CHARLENE

Tehachapi.

ANTHONY

Is that near Kykuit?

CHARLENE

I hope they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck.

ANTHONY

This wasn’t a capital crime. The only hanging I’ll be doing is around.

CHARLENE

The chances are you’ll get twenty years. If you’re a good boy, you’ll get out in five. I can’t wait that long.

ANTHONY

Don’t, Charlene. Don’t say that even in fun. I was frightened for a minute. I really thought . . . You do such wild and unpredictable things.

CHARLENE

You’re taking the fall - and I’m taking a vacation. Liposuction here, botox there and Charlene’s got her groove back.

ANTHONY

You’ve been playing with me . . . You didn’t care at all. You don’t love me.

CHARLENE

I won’t play the sap for you.

ANTHONY

You know in your heart, In spite of everything I’ve done, I love you.

CHARLENE

I don’t care who loves who. I won’t play the sap. I won’t follow in Morrisey’s and I don’t know how many others’ footsteps.

ANTHONY Morrisey was our lawyer. He followed in our footsteps.

CHARLENE

You robbed your mother and you’re going over for it.

ANTHONY

It was your idea!

CHARLENE

This won’t do any good. You’ll never understand me, but I’ll try once and then give up. I was already old when I met you. Now, I’m over the hill. My chances of finding another husband are slim to none. I can’t waste any of them waiting for you.

ANTHONY

But I won’t last in prison. You know that. You won’t be waiting long.

CHARLENE

Your mother lived to be one hundred and five under worse conditions.

ANTHONY

The conditions were your idea.

CHARLENE

The only reason I should wait is maybe you love me and maybe I love you.

ANTHONY

You know whether you love me or not.

CHARLENE

Maybe I do. I’ll have some rotten nights after they send you up the river, but that’ll pass.

ANTHONY

If my mother had died when she should have, twenty-five years ago, would you still feel this way?

CHARLENE

A lot more money would have been one more thing on your side of the scales.

(Anthony takes a poker and plants it in Charlene’s forehead. Then pours himself five fingers of 100-year old cognac, drinks and calls Morrisey.)

Guilting Unrefined Goldman.

I see Greg Smith is leaving Goldman Sachs. Normally, I wouldn’t care. I don’t know him and never heard of him until The New York Times devoted the bulk of their Op-Ed page (3/14/12) to his valedictory address. Why would they trust the most expensive real estate in journalism to a banker who participated in – and profited from – the mortgage crisis? True, Mr. Smith says a lot of nasty things about his former employer, but why is this newsworthy and not just a breach of job interview etiquette?

“I don’t know of any illegal behavior,” writes Mr. Smith, “but will people push the envelope and pitch lucrative and complicated products to clients even if they are not the simplest investments or the ones most directly in line with the client’s goals? Absolutely. Every day, in fact.” If that’s whistle-blowing, it’s a dog whistle. It gets worse, though. “. . . managing directors refer to their own clients as ‘muppets’” and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, “It makes me ill how callously people talk about ripping their clients off.” Those aren’t indictments, those are aesthetic objections.

Okay, he’s not exactly kicking butt. Is he taking names? Yes. “ . . . current chief executive officer, Lloyd C. Blankfein, and the president, Gary D. Cohen, lost hold of the firm’s culture on their watch.” Of all the horrible things you can say about Mr. Blankfein, (for examples, see “Goldfellas” TFT 8/6/9, “Sounds like Gold in Sacks” TFT 10/20/9, “Sun-Sachs Boulevard TFT 7/27/10, “A letter to our clients from Gold Ransacks” TFT 11/13/10 and “The role of Lloyd C. Blankfein will be played by Mel Gibson” TFT 7/20/10) he chose a pretty pale one. It’s true, of course. I'm willing to believe that all his damning criticisms of Goldman Sachs are true. What I’m groping for is his moral authority. Why should I - or a Wall Street professional – allow him to tell us what’s right?

What was Greg Smith doing while everyone else was worshipping the Golden Calf? He’s only too glad to tell us – up to a point. Did you know that he managed a trillion dollars in assets? I didn’t. I don’t even know if that’s good. To paraphrase Sen. Everett Dirksen, “A trillion here, a trillion there and pretty soon you’re talking about real money.” Mr. Smith, in fact, slips his entire resume into his Op-Ed piece (no mean achievement itself) but neglects to tell us how he rose from intern to Executive Director in twelve years without succumbing to temptation, how he was promoted by Lloyd C. Blankfein while disdaining him and most, importantly, how he could sell derivatives to most of the world without being compromised. What are derivatives? Lucrative and complicated products that . . . never mind.

Is Greg Smith a martyr? Did he risk his job by writing this piece? Who knows? He tells us nothing about the circumstances leading up to his “leaving” Goldman Sachs. Is he endangering his future by publishing it? I’m assuming, at this point, that Mr. Smith doesn’t have to work for a living. So, he can either retire to the golf course or if he can find an impeccably client-centered financial firm that doesn’t place too high a value on loyalty, he may continue to polish his resume – and, presumably, his halo. I would, however, offer him one piece of advice. If you’re thinking of joining an exclusive country club or working in a small, highly-refined private bank, don't mention your bronze medal in Israel’s Maccabiah games. I know you’re proud of it, Mr. “Smith,” but some things you should keep to yourself.