Captain Magic

Three Goldman executives created GLG in the 1990s, making it one of the first modern hedge funds. The firm itself was nested inside Lehman Brothers. All three founders had a private client background. With strong investor relationships and a little autonomy, they quickly set up a private fiefdom with enough greed, intrigue, and conspiracy to fill a book or two. That was a little before my time, though. In 2000, Lehman spun GLG off into an independent entity. GLG traded through the Nasdaq crash, September 11th, recessions, and wars - buying when blood was on the street and succeeding beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. The partners were “Operator As Fuck”, navigating crises and opportunities. By 2007, GLG had become the largest hedge fund in Europe, and they were listed on a stock exchange to set up a base of permanent capital. In 2009, they acquired SocGen’s UK asset management arm and finally cashed out from a position of strength in 2010 when Man Group bought them. Sounds impressive, right? Yet GLG was the most dysfunctional company on the planet.

It was a different time on Wall Street; even a schmuck like me had a great job. One of Spear Leeds's partners started serving vodka tonics while bartending a cocktail party at Chris Christie’s house. Another of the biggest names on the Street found out the principal of an investment fund was going to be at a Steelers game and bought a ticket next to him to ask for a job. One trader used to be a golf caddy; Ken Langone noticed he came into work with a broken hand and said to him, “Go see my cousin; he broke his finger once, too. I think he works at a hedge fund.” A year later, that guy was whipping million-share orders around. Those are just a few of my peers; opportunity was everywhere. All you needed was a little... mojo.

I met my first GLG partner in Augusta. We flew in and shared a car to the house our broker had set up for the weekend. He was good-looking, but his shirt was buttoned a little low to my liking. He struck a rapport with the driver and asked where we should go that night. The driver suggests we stop at a local bar called Fox’s Lair. I’m enthusiastic; I never say no to drinks on the road. The GLG guy tells me that when we meet people, I should refer to him as “Captain.” It’s part of his game. Besides, it’ll be funny, trust him.

We order beers and find our attention drawn to a woman by a billiard table in the corner. She can’t play to save herself but is wearing a white shirt with a Cheers logo and impossibly small bell-bottom jeans. Captain takes a single swig from his beer, walks over, and says, “Those jeans are skintight; how do you get into those pants?” she returns with, “Well, you can start by getting me a drink.” He passes her his beer and says, “You’re good on your feet.” She retorts, “I’m even better off my feet.” In no time, she’s left her friends and is in the car with us on the way to the house. I jump in the front seat while they make out a little in the back. We get to the HSBC mansion, and Captain barely glances at his broker before sweeping the bar girl into an empty bedroom. Thirty minutes later, he walks into the living room and says, “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand I’m spent. Let’s head to the tournament.”

Now, I don’t care about golf. I guess it’s okay for people without a dog to walk around with. I also don’t remember much about the competition, but the Captain strolls into the locker room where the players are getting ready. He’s in there for a while, only conversing with the guys in green jackets, mind you, and then wanders back out to join us. On the way, he stops to talk to a girl who is a wonderful combination of desperate for attention and under inadequate supervision. He seems to have a good rapport but suddenly turns his back and walks away. I asked him, why did you jump ship? He tells me she was hotter than Satan’s balls and bets she shags like a minx, but she kept asking him over and over why he was in the players' locker room, and he hates to be asked the same question three times. Later in the afternoon, he was spotted hanging outside John Daly’s RV in the Hooters parking lot, driving golf balls Happy Gilmore-style over rooftops, drinking, womanizing, and arguing over who invented the question mark. He gathered a big crew and returned for an impromptu house party. When I see him, he greets me like a childhood friend, speaks to me like I’m the only person in the world, and introduces me around as a legendary operator for one of the greatest traders in the world.

I have to admit I was momentarily and strangely fascinated by this guy. It’s not like I had a man crush or anything; I was blown away by his self-confidence and ability to converse with anyone. He was so laden with possibilities and potential that his mere existence jolted the reality of the people around him.

The following day, we shared a car to the airport. I tell him I’ve never met anyone quite like him and ask about his plans for the future. He tells me he’s starting up a new commercial real estate fund. They’re going to raise a kajillion-bajillion dollars. He’s planning his exit from GLG, and as long as the investor community still has a promiscuous attitude to hedge fund launches while at the same time experimenting with mind-expanding strategies in a consequence-free environment, well, he’ll be sound as a pound. I gathered my courage and asked if his new fund would need another trader; I’ve worked for only one firm in the past ten years but would consider moving for the right opportunity. I reminded him we discussed this last night, and he told me to bring it up before we left.

He looks sternly and says, “Listen, if Drunk Me said or did something, you gotta take it up with Drunk Me. Sober Me wasn’t there; we don’t know what happened. Also, you seem like a good guy, but you’re not quite operator enough. You’re semi-operator. You’re quasi-operator. You’re the margarine of operator. The diet coke of operator. Just one calorie - not operator enough.”

I regret asking, so I return to my blackberry. He notices my eyes glazing over and says he'll leave me with complimentary advice that he hopes will clear up any confusion. He told me this: The cleverest people know investing on Wall Street is a random walk and that it’s better to be lucky than competent. You can believe that, yet still act as if it’s not true. The way you do that is to force yourself to celebrate what is around you every minute of every day… your future then becomes a question of how much you want to pay attention to life. Well? How much do you?

I never made enough money to be as eccentric a GLG partner, but I thought about that advice for a long time. You should, too.

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Captain Magic is a chapter of my book Occupy a Job on Wall Street.