Too Big to Fail [15]
Several years after he started at Lehman, Fuld noticed a fresh face on the mortgage desk. While Fuld was dark and brooding, the new guy was pale and affable. He quickly introduced himself—a gesture Fuld appreciated—sticking out his hand in a manner that suggested a person comfortable in his own skin: “Hi, I’m Joe Gregory.” It was the start of an association that would endure for nearly four decades.
In terms of temperament, Gregory was Fuld’s opposite—more personable, perhaps, and less confrontational. He looked up to Fuld, who soon became his mentor.
One day Fuld, who even as CEO upbraided executives over how they dressed, took his friend aside and told him he was sartorially objectionable. For Fuld, there was one acceptable uniform: pressed dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie. Glucksman, he explained, could get away with soup stains on his tie and untucked shirt tail, but neither of them was Glucksman. Gregory set off to Bloomingdale’s the following weekend for a wardrobe upgrade. “I was one of those people who didn’t want to disappoint Dick,” Gregory later told a friend.
Like Fuld, Gregory, a non–Ivy Leaguer who graduated from Hofstra University, had come to Lehman in the 1960s almost by accident. He had planned to become a high school history teacher, but after working a summer at Lehman as a messenger, he decided on a career in finance. By the 1980s Gregory and three other fast-track Lehman executives were commuting together from Huntington on the North Shore of Long Island. During the long early-morning ride, they discussed the trading strategies they’d try out on the floor that day. Within the firm the group was known as the “Huntington Mafia”: They arrived with a consensus. They often stayed around after work and played pickup basketball at the company’s gym.
Both Fuld and Gregory advanced quickly under Glucksman, who was himself a brilliant trader. Fuld was clearly Glucksman’s favorite. Each morning Fuld and James S. Boshart—another rising star—would sit around with Glucksman reading his copy of the Wall Street Journal, with Glucksman providing the color commentary. His bons mots were known as Glucksmanisms. “Don’t ever cuff a trade!” he’d say, meaning don’t bother picking up the phone if you don’t know the latest stock quote.
Glucksman’s unkemptness, they had come to realize, was a political badge of sorts, for Glucksman seethed with resentment at what he regarded as the privileges and pretenses of the Ivy League investment bankers at the firm. The battle between bankers and traders is the closest thing to class warfare on Wall Street. Investment banking was esteemed as an art, while trading was more like a sport, something that required skill, but not necessarily brains or creativity. Or so the thinking went. Traders had always been a notch lower in the pecking order, even when they started to drive revenue growth. The combative Glucksman encouraged this us-against-them mentality among his trading staff. “Fucking bankers!” was a constant refrain.
Once, Glucksman heard that Peter Lusk, a successful banker in Lehman’s Los Angeles office in the 1970s, had spent $368,000 to decorate his office with crystal chandeliers, wood-paneled walls, and a wet bar. Glucksman immediately got on a plane to the West Coast and went straight to Lusk’s office, which was unoccupied when he showed up. Horrified by the decor, he rummaged around a secretary’s desk, found a piece of paper, scribbled a message in block letters, and taped it on the door: “YOU’RE FIRED!”
He didn’t leave it at that. Glucksman returned to the secretary’s desk, grabbed another piece of paper, and wrote an addendum to his previous message, taping it right below: “And you will pay Lehman Brothers back every cent you spent on this office.”
In 1983 Glucksman led