Hedge Fund Wives Being Forced To Drown Sorrows In Cheap Booze, And Other Horror Stories You Cannot Imagine

Author:
Publish date:
Updated on

Here at Dealbreaker we've been taking careful note of the various ways in which the wives of formerly successful financial services hacks have been forced to demean themselves due to unprecedented market volatility. Flying commercial over private. Wearing J. Crew. Performing A2M without even the possibility of it resulting in a trip to the ATM. Driving Honda Pilots. Today the sob stories continue.
Since his hedge fund closed, one trader's wife has been slumming it among the masses, telling writer, Tatiana Boncompagni, "Do you know I have to take the subway now? I didn't get married for this." Fuck no she didn't! (Sadly, unless she cuts her losses, Jenny from the Block will be riding the 6 for the foreseeable future, on account of the fact that, in her opinion, Meal Ticket hasn't been trying hard enough to find a new job.) Thanks to her worthless hedge hub, another victim is downgrading to $60 bottles of wine at dinner. Tomorrow it'll probably be Old English. One wife is actually being forced to pimp it out (her house on Mustique, for $40,000 a week, not her body but presumably that's next). And there are the women whose situations are so bad they're not even allowed to get into it at all.

When I tried to interview an acquaintance whose husband works for SAC Capital for this article, she told me that she had been advised not to speak to anyone, even off the record.

Related

Hedge Fund Manager Who Faked His Own Death Has A Few Theories About Other Famous Murders, Real And Imaginary

Remember Samuel Israel III? For those with short memories, SI3 is a former hedge fund manager who faked his own death in June 2008 with the help of his girlfriend, Debra Ryan, who later wrote an article explaining her actions by noting that she and Israel had "a blazing sex life" that was hard to walk away from (Ryan shared colorful anecdotes that included all the times Israel would "[jokingly] sneak up on her, once while wearing sunglasses on his penis"). For Israel's part, he had pretended to kill himself, incorporating a line from M*A*S*H into his fake suicide note, in an attempt to avoid the prison stay that was coming his way, on account of having taken Bayou Group investors for more than $450 million. At the time, he became something of a minor celebrity, whose business card, prominently featuring an egret, was auctioned off on eBay but since ultimately being sentenced to twenty years behind bars we'd heard nary a peep from the guy. Luckily, Andrew Ross Sorkin recently flew down to Butner, North Carolina for a little chat and it's a good thing he did because Israel had a lot he wanted to get off his chest. After offering ARS an "orange Life Saver," discussing his own version of a playoffs beard ("Mr. Israel...was wearing a tan prison uniform with his hair grown out, a mass of silver and brown curls sprouting from the sides of his bald head. 'I’m never going to cut it until I get out,' he exclaimed"), and talking Ponzi schemes, SI3 got down to the real matter at hand. About halfway through, the interview turned bizarre when Mr. Israel, on the verge of crying, announced: “I took a man’s life. I shot him twice.” I asked for more details. The story is recounted in “Octopus,” but the author, Mr. Lawson, doesn’t appear to believe it. In the supposed slaying, Mr. Israel describes himself defending a known con man, Robert Booth Nichols, who claimed to have once worked for the Central Intelligence Agency and has since died. Mr. Nichols was undertaking a secret trade at a German bank and was ambushed outside by a cockeyed “Middle Eastern guy.” Mr. Israel says he shot the ambusher in the hip and then in the head. He looked at me, shaking, and said, “I’ve seen someone with their head blown off maybe two feet back — as close as I am to you.” Mr. Israel recognized my skepticism. When I asked him what happened to the body, he said, “Bob made a couple of calls.” Again, I looked at him quizzically. “These people can do anything. They can get rid of a body,” he said. “Come on,” he added, looking at me as if I didn’t understand. “They can kill presidents.” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. “The J.F.K. thing,” he said. He went on to tell me that he had videotapes of Kennedy’s assassination and that one was stolen by the F.B.I. “I know it makes me look like a crackpot,” he said. “But I know it’s real. Look into my eyes — I don’t care if people think I’m crazy.” Egrets. A Con Man Who Lives Between Truth And Fiction [Dealbook]