When Schumpeter recently visited New York, it was at its springtime best. There were cherry blossoms in Central Park, birdsong in the bushes, and—to drown out any false sense of serenity—the usual cacophony of car horns and jackhammers in the streets. Whoosh up in elevators to the salons of Wall Street’s gilded elite, and it only gets better. The views are breathtaking, the preferences revealing—CDs lining the shelves of one legal beagle, a handkerchief in the top pocket of another. Yet if you thought such veterans had seen it all, think again. “It’s a shitload more complicated than it’s ever been,” says the boss of
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