 Random House Audio presents The Bicide, a Wall Street Trader's Tale of Spectacular Excess. This is the author, Turnie Duff, to Lola, with love. Author's Note I wanted to write an honest book, so I've tried to keep all the names and places real. In certain cases, however, owing to considerations of privacy and a desire not to embarrass those whose intentions were honorable and some not so honorable, I've chosen to alter certain identifying details and make use of pseudonyms. Dialogue and events have been recreated from memory, and in some cases have been compressed to convey the substances of what occurred or was said. I've done my best to keep the time sequence in order, but it's possible that events occurred either earlier or later in reality than they occur in this story. Otherwise, this book is a candid account of my experience on Wall Street as I remember it. Prologue October 2003 7.30 p.m. New York City I'm ready. The early darkness falls as we make our way across Tribeca, our shoes clicking on the cobblestones. At this hour the Bugaboo strollers have yielded to the coming Saturday night revelry. My roommates and inner circle, six men and three women, all fashionably dressed as if they're attending a red carpet premiere, surround me. They mirror my every move, like a school of night fish. Our pace increases as we strive the few blocks to West Broadway and Canal. I wear a flannel shirt that has the sleeves ripped off. My favorite pair of worn jeans and baby blue tinted sunglasses with studded fake jewels around the lenses. Marcus, the owner of the canal room, meets us outside the club's door. When he sees me, a smile stretches across his face. There with me, I say, flicking a thumb at my trailing companions. The doorman unhooks the red velvet rope and we follow Marcus into the club. It's nearly empty, but not for long. Marcus is smiling for good reason. He calls me the Pied Piper, King of the Night, and soon my following, the royalty of Young Wall Street, will fill his club. By 8 p.m. the line outside the canal room stretches to more than a hundred people. By 8.30 it's almost doubled. When the door's finally open, it's as though someone has pulled a stopper and a marble sink filled with champagne. Dressed in Armani and Prada, the excited throng pours inside. I stand by the door, playing the role of greeter, accumulating lipstick impressions on my cheeks, and occasionally, a small... Sample complete. Ready to continue?