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By Root 407 0

vexed as Steve Eisman. The world's most powerful and most highly paid financiers had been entirely discredited; without government intervention every single one of them would have lost his job; and yet those same financiers were using the government to enrich themselves. "I can understand why Goldman Sachs would want to be included in the conversation about what to do about Wall Street," he said. "What I can't understand is why anyone would listen to them." In Eisman's view, the unwillingness of the U.S. government to allow the bankers to fail was less a solution than a symptom of a still deeply dysfunctional financial system. The problem wasn't that the banks were, in and of themselves, critical to the success of the U.S. economy. The problem, he felt certain, was that some gargantuan, unknown dollar amount of credit default swaps had been bought and sold on every one of them. "There's no limit to the risk in the market," he said. "A bank with a market capitalization of one billion dollars might have one trillion dollars' worth of credit default swaps outstanding. No one knows how many there are! And no one knows where they are!" The failure of, say, Citigroup might be economically tolerable. It would trigger losses to Citigroup's shareholders, bondholders, and employees--but the sums involved were known to all. Citigroup's failure, however, would also trigger the payoff of a massive bet of unknown dimensions: from people who had sold credit default swaps on Citigroup to those who had bought them.

This was yet another consequence of turning Wall Street partnerships into public corporations: It turned them into objects of speculation. It was no longer the social and economic relevance of a bank that rendered it too big to fail, but the number of side bets that had been made upon it.

At some point I could not help but ask John Gutfreund about his biggest and most fateful act: Combing through the rubble of the avalanche, the decision to turn the Wall Street partnership into a public corporation looked a lot like the first pebble kicked off the top of the hill. "Yes," he said. "They--the heads of the other Wall Street firms--all said what an awful thing it was to go public and how could you do such a thing. But when the temptation rose, they all gave in to it." He agreed, though: The main effect of turning a partnership into a corporation was to transfer the financial risk to the shareholders. "When things go wrong it's their problem," he said--and obviously not theirs alone. When the Wall Street investment bank screwed up badly enough, its risks became the problem of the United States government. "It's laissez-faire until you get in deep shit," he said, with a half chuckle. He was out of the game. It was now all someone else's fault.

He watched me curiously as I scribbled down his words. "What's this for?" he asked.

I told him that I thought it might be worth revisiting the world I'd described in Liar's Poker, now that it was finally dying. Maybe bring out a twentieth anniversary edition.

"That's nauseating," he said.

Hard as it was for him to enjoy my company, it was harder for me not to enjoy his: He was still tough, straight, and blunt as a butcher. He'd helped to create a monster but he still had in him a lot of the old Wall Street, where people said things like "a man's word is his bond." On that Wall Street people didn't walk out of their firms and cause trouble for their former bosses by writing a book about them. "No," he said, "I think we can agree about this: Your fucking book destroyed my career and it made yours." With that, the former king of a former Wall Street lifted the plate that held his appetizer and asked, sweetly, "Would you like a deviled egg?"

Until that moment I hadn't paid much attention to what he'd been eating. Now I saw he'd ordered the best thing in the house, this gorgeous, frothy confection of an earlier age. Who ever dreamed up the deviled egg? Who knew that a simple egg could be made so complicated, and yet so appealing? I reached over and took one. Something for nothing. It never