That little old lady whose account you were churning had a very nice son-in-law who works for the SEC. Bob, Bubba. Bubba, Bob. You both look nice in stripes. Very slimming.

You never really got lots of clients. Their fees paid your rent for a few years until the last few left or died, and now you work for a bank, processing wealth management software tools for $100,000 a year.

You have a nice little business—four employees, a little office with a nice secretary who makes great coffee. You like your clients; they like you. The dance goes on for twenty-five years or more and then you retire.

Nice-sized office—a billion bucks under management nets you a few million in your pocket each year. You have a few homes, nice cars, and a smokin' hot third wife. Third time's the charm.

Huge. That's the name of your company. It fits. You have $25 billion under management and more coming in every day. You're a billionaire yourself and you are courted by all the power players in your 'hood. You can buy just about anything you want. Except happiness. But who wouldn't be happy with a billion bucks?