NEW YORK. The reception area of Amvesco, a Dutch investment bank that opened its first U.S. office a year ago, is crowded this morning with men and women in expensive suits fiddling with tablet computers and chatting on cell phones, but one man sitting by himself on a couch seems out of place.
Ray Lee Suggins, a worm farmer from Glasgow, Missouri, has developed a profitable sideline teaching high-powered executives folksy sayings they use to ingratiate themselves with profitable customers, or to disarm adversaries in the midst of heated negotiations. “Even a blind hog will find an acorn every oncet in a while,” Ray Lee says as he sips a cup of coffee offered to him by the firm’s receptionist, “but if you want to run with the big dogs, you got to git off the porch.”
A rather buxom and zaftig young woman appears and introduces herself as personal assistant to Ian Bradford, Senior Vice President, the man who has retained Suggins to give a two-hour seminar to some of the firm’s new hires, both foreign and U.S.-born. “Mr. Suggins–Mr. Bradford is ready for you,” she says as she turns and leads the way to a wood-paneled conference room that overlooks the Hudson River. Suggins nudges this reporter in the ribs as we follow her and says sotto voce “Look at that there skirt move–looks like two hogs fightin’ under a sheet, don’t it?”
A working knowledge of American folk sayings is considered an essential instrument in the tool kit of the modern-day investment banker, whose success or failure often turns on wooing CEOs who come from humbler origins than the cookie-cutter young professionals who typically fill the junior ranks at most financial institutions. “You’ve got to strike just the right tone,” says executive recruiter Dan Olfstead. “If you don’t know any faux-folksy sayings, you come across as snooty. If you lay it on too thick, you sound as phony as Dan Rather.”
Bradford introduces Suggins to the assembled men and women, many of whom feel their career advancement has been thwarted by their sheltered upbringing. “I grew up in Scarsdale,” says Eliot Siebel, a retail broker who failed to meet his sales goals last quarter. “I don’t know which end of a pig is up.”
Suggins starts with the basics, directing his first examples to the wholesale side of the bank where million dollar fees from mergers and acquisitions can be won or lost on the personal rapport a junior MBA develops with an executive many years senior. “Now, supposin’ you think you got yourself a deal, when all of a sudden the CFO says he don’t want to pay your break-up fee, or maybe he don’t like the claw-back you put in there in case earnings don’t pan out. What do you say?” Suggins asks the group.
There is silence, and Suggins cups a hand to one ear. “Somebody? Anybody? All I hear is them crickets scratchin’ their legs together,” he says with a smile. “What you say is ‘Goldarnit, that there clawback or break-up fee has been in the term sheet from the git-go!’”
Pens in the hands of attendees begin to race across pads in leather portfolios as the overachieving tyros of finance instinctively take copious notes during any presentation, if not for their own benefit so that they appear to be engaged to superiors who may be watching them.
“I’ve got a deal where another underwriter in the syndicate is trying to grab a bigger slice of the fees than is industry standard,” says Amanda Blanderson, a graduate of Tuck Business School at Dartmouth. “I need them in the deal, but I don’t want to be a pushover.”
“You know what you say to them greedy bastards? You tell ’em ‘Pigs git fat and hogs git slaughtered.’ If that don’t work, you say ‘I ain’t suckin’ hind tit for nobody.’”
Heads nod in approval around the conference table, and Suggins continues in this vein for the duration of the session, weaving a down-home spell that keeps his yuppie audience entranced when they aren’t laughing out loud at his sometimes off-color humor.
At the end of the session there are smiles all around, and Bradford thanks Suggins for his efforts after the room is cleared. “Now about your fee,” Bradford says delicately.
“It’s a hundred dollars an hour,” Suggins says, and it is clear from his tone that there will be no negotiations on this point, folksy or otherwise.
“Why, that’s quite reasonable,” Bradford says. “Our session lasted an hour and a half, so why don’t we just say two hours for $200.”
Bradford pulls two crisp $100 bills from his wallet, but Suggins doesn’t seem entirely satisfied.
“I think you’re forgittin’ something,” he says sharply, his eyes formed into tight little slits.
“What’s that?” the banker asks.
“I need bus fare home, too.”