Rigged by Ben Mezrich Read Free Book Online Page A

casino in the world. These meatheads are trading billions of dollars a day. It looks like pure chaos, but it’s coordinated.”
    As Reston was talking, one of the meatier of the bunch turned to face them from the pit. A kid really, probably not even David’s age, in a red-and-orange-striped jacket.
    “Hey, Nicky,” he shouted, his voice raspy and used. “I see you brought your girlfriend to work with you.”
    “That’s right, Vitzi,” Reston responded. “This pretty thing is David Russo. Giovanni’s newest pain in my ass. This one’s a Harvard boy.”
    David groaned inwardly. He knew, instinctively, how that was going to go over. Looking around the room at the traders, he felt like he’d suddenly raced backward in time to his childhood split between Staten Island and Brooklyn, to the family reunions and grade-school playgrounds and neighborhood streets. Giovanni and Reston hadn’t been kidding about the makeup of the trading floor. Their ages seemed to range from early twenties to late forties—even a few fifties and sixties in the mix—and it was almost entirely male. Tough guys, from the looks of them, despite their Day-Glo-colored clothes.
    Two more of the traders turned around to look at David, both young men in their twenties like Vitzi, both obviously Italian and more than a little rough around the edges. One was burly, with a protruding paunch and wild brown hair. The other was thin and lanky, with at least two days’ beard growth on his jaw.
    “Just what we need. Another rocket scientist. How long did the last one make it? A week?”
    “I think his mommy came to rescue him by day three,” Vitzi joked back.
    David felt like he was about to get eaten alive. He wanted to respond, nip this shit right from the start—maybe even swing at one of them just to set things right—but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to get fired five minutes into his first day. Especially considering the bridge at Merrill was still burning, and, asfar as he could tell, the financial job market hadn’t gotten any better over the weekend.
    Reston responded before he had a chance. “I’m guessing this one is gone by tomorrow, but I’m hoping he makes it a bit longer. Nothing worse for me than having to deal with you boneheads face-to-face.”
    With that, he led David off the trading floor, straight to a bank of elevators. Once they were secure in the ascending steel box, Reston turned to look at him.
    “Those guys are right, you know. You can take your Harvard degree and shove it up your ass.”
    David felt his cheeks turning red. This was going great so far.
    “This place bleeds Brooklyn,” Reston continued as the digital numbers on the elevator readout blinked upward. “This place sweats Queens. This isn’t the New York Stock Exchange. You can’t just get a fancy degree and apply for a job at the Merc. This place is an apprenticeship system, like a fraternity, with secret handshakes and hazing rituals. Those guys are going to call you my girlfriend until you prove to them that you’re not.”
    David wanted to melt into the elevator wall. When he’d met Reston at Morton’s, he’d sensed some animosity, but he’d assumed that it was something he’d be able to work through. He wasn’t so sure anymore.
    “That meathead Vitzi,” Reston continued, “is one of the hottest kids on the floor right now. And he came from fucking nowhere. He’d tell you himself—if he wasn’t doing this, he’d be selling shoes. Grew up on the street in Bensonhurst, stealing car radios and knocking over ATM machines. Somehow stayed out of jail long enough to worm his way into a clerk job here—maybe a cousin or an uncle brought him in. Got paid ten thousand a year to be someone’s bitch—the shittiest fucking job in the world. But he was smart, sharp as a fucking tack. Now he’s playing in the game—and if all goes well, he’ll make fucking millions.”
    David blinked, taking it all in as best he could.
    “I get it.