Rigged: The True Story of an Ivy League Kid Who Changed the World of Oil, from Wall Street to Dubai (P.S.)
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After conquering the hallowed halls of Harvard Business School, an Italian-American kid from the streets of Brooklyn decides to take on the testosterone-fueled Merc Exchange in lower Manhattan—where billions of dollars in oil money trade hands every week and where fistfights are known to break out on the trading floor.
Soon our hero is living the good life in the gold-lined hotel palaces of Dubai and on private yachts in Monte Carlo, teeming with half-naked girls flown in by Saudi sheikhs, and making deals in the dangerous back alleys of Beijing. But that's only the beginning. Taken under the wing of another young gun and partnering with a mysterious young Muslim, the kid embarks on a dangerous adventure to revolutionize the oil trading industry—and, along with it, the world.
This is a true story.
David immediately imagined his friend’s face: the dark caramel skin, the jet black eyes, the ever-present half-smile. Roughly the same age as David, the friend on the other end of the line was more than just his counterpart on the project—he had become almost a brother. “I’m standing in the middle of it,” the friend’s voice continued. “Right where it’s going to happen.” David closed his eyes and tried to picture it. First the brightness. Then the heat—mind-numbing, stifling, utterly
“Hah. No, that’s not all there is to it. Because those meatheads are actually pretty impressive, when you think about ’em. Not one of them is making less than five hundred thousand dollars a year. A few are bringing down millions, and an even smaller few are bringing down tens of millions.” David whistled. It was hard to imagine a guy like Vitzi making that kind of money. David knew the basics of trading—buy low, sell high, and the reverse—but when it came to oil in all its forms, he was a
kid.” “Thank you, Mr. Giovanni,” David blurted, his face flushed. He couldn’t believe he was standing there, talking to one of the most powerful men in the country. He didn’t want to fuck up the opportunity with too many words, but at the same time he could feel a million responses rising in his chest. He had never been that good at controlling what came out of his mouth in times of high pressure. But for the moment, he managed to keep it simple. “It’s an honor to meet you.” Giovanni cocked his
chosen to watch the event from somewhere nearer to the track, since a pair of his own horses were in the competition—and Khaled had been more than a good host during the first few hours of the event, enduring the ribald conversational style of the ex-traders, their profanity-laden vocabularies, and their common use of cultural stereotypes. But as the excitement of the race multiplied toward the current crescendo, Khaled seemed to have been swept up right along with them. His usually serene
airplanes in existence—it was also a sort of moving office, outfitted with all the necessities that that implied. Computer terminals with online access along one wall. Flat-screen TVs with satellite receivers hanging from the ceiling. And a paper shredder, embedded in the table in front of Khaled, always charged and ready to receive. Khaled took the two photos and fed them one at a time into the shredder. As he did so, his thoughts drifted to the next few days, then beyond, to his immediate