Catching the Wolf of Wall Street

“Anyway, for ten solid days I taught it to them—going back and forth, role-playing, like I’d done with Danny that night—until they knew it so well that they could recite the f**king lines in their sleep. Actually, I only spent half of each day teaching them; the other half they spent cold-calling, building a massive war chest of leads to call.

“And finally, on day ten when the leads came due, they started opening accounts on Kodak with such ease that it was literally mind-boggling. It was as if the straight line could turn even the weakest salesman into a total killer. And that emboldened me even further, and I began pounding at them even more mercilessly, promising them riches beyond their wildest dreams.

“ ‘I want you to start spending money now,’ I preached to them. ‘I want you to leverage yourselves! To back yourselves into a corner! To give yourselves no choice but to succeed! Let the consequences of failure become so dire and so unthinkable that you won’t be able to stomach the thought of it.

“‘Understand this,’ I said. ‘When Pizarro came to the New World, the first thing he did was burn his f**king ships, so his crew would have no choice but to hack out an existence in the New World. And that’s what I want you to do! I want you to cut off all exit ramps, all escape routes!

“ ‘After all, you owe it to the person sitting next to you to dial the phone. You owe it to every other Strattonite sitting in this room to dial the phone. That’s where our power comes from: from one another, from a collective effort, from the combined energy of a room full of the most motivated people to ever hit Wall Street, a room full of winners!’”

I paused and took a moment to catch my breath. “Anyway, you all know what happened next: Seven days later they began pitching Ventura, and all hell broke loose. Blocks of tens and twenties began slinging around the boardroom like water, and money began falling out of the sky.” I shook my head slowly. “And I can’t even begin to describe how quickly we grew from this point. It was as if gold had been struck, and young prospectors began showing up in Lake Success to stake their claims. At first they trickled in, then they poured in. It started from towns in Queens and Long Island and quickly spread across the country. And just like that, Stratton was born.

“Anyway, it was only a few weeks after this when I walked into my office one morning and found Jim Taormina waiting for me. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Stratton is yours,’ and he handed me a set of keys he was holding. ‘I’ll sell you the place for a dollar and be your head trader. Just please take my name off the license!’

“And then Mike came in, the old Wall Street war dog, who’d thought he’d seen everything. ‘You have to stop them!’ he begged. ‘We can’t handle any more business right now. We’re on the verge of blowing up our clearing agent.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this, Jordan. It’s absolutely incredible….’ The funny thing was that our clearing agent—meaning the company that processed our trades—couldn’t handle the influx of volume and was threatening to pull the plug on us unless we slowed things down.

“And then came the Blockhead. ‘I’m underwater with commissions,’ he said, panic-stricken. ‘I can’t keep track of them. Millions are pouring in, and the bank keeps calling me.’ I had put the Blockhead in charge of our finances, and he was underwater now-drowning beneath a sea of money and paperwork.

“In any event, these were all good problems, problems that were easy to handle. With Jim Taormina, I did as he asked: I bought the firm from him for a dollar and made him my head trader. With Mike, I did as he asked too: I stood before the boardroom and gave a sales meeting that turned the whole thing into a positive.

“With piss and vinegar, I said, ‘What we have here is so powerful and so effective that the rest of Wall Street can’t even keep up with us!’ And, with that, my Strattonites clapped and cheered and hooted and howled. Then we spent the next two weeks just getting leads, which ultimately fueled our growth even further.

“And to help the Blockhead, I turned to my father, who was still unemployed. He was a brilliant man, a licensed CPA who’d spent the better part of his life as the CFO of various private companies. But he was in his mid-fifties now—a bit too old and way too overqualified to land a good job.

“So I recruited him—reluctantly at first, but I recruited him nonetheless. And he moved into the Blockhead’s office, where the two of them had the pleasure of driving each other crazy. Mad Max quickly bared his fangs—calling the Blockhead a f**king twerp and a f**king moron and a thousand other f**king things, including, of course, a f**king blockhead. And the fact that the Blockhead was allergic to cigarette smoke was something Mad Max relished beyond belief—consuming four packs a day and exhaling thick jets of smoke right in the Blockhead’s face, with the force of a Civil War cannon.

“But, that aside, you can see how I had the whole thing wired now. Between Mike and my father I had my rear flank covered, and between Danny and Kenny I had a tip of a sword that rivaled the Mossad. And I… well, let’s just say that I had all the time I needed to sit back and give meetings and focus on the big picture— and to resolve the last missing piece of the puzzle, which was where to find more warrants that would provide me with cheap stock, like Ventura warrants did.”

I looked at OCD and smiled. “Care to guess who I turned to for that?”

OCD cringed. “Al Abrams,” he muttered.

“Indeed,” I said. “Mr. Al Abrams, the maddest of all Wall Streeters.” I cocked my head to the side and stared down OCD. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Greg, but I once heard a rumor that Al was writing letters to Bill Clinton about you, saying you were a rogue agent.”

OCD shook his head wearily. “He’s one crazy old bird, that guy. When I arrested him, he had a hundred documents on him, some more than thirty years old!”

“Well, that sounds like Al,” I said casually. “He never liked to throw things out. He’s what you call a careful criminal.”

“Not careful enough,” said the Witch. “Last time I checked, he was still behind bars.” She flashed me a devilish smile.

Yeah, I thought, but not because of you, Cruella; it was OCD who’d caught him. But I kept that thought to myself and said, “Actually, I think he’s out now, probably back in Connecticut, driving his poor wife insane.” I looked at OCD. “Just out of curiosity: When you arrested him, did he have any food in his pockets? Any half-eaten Linzer tortes? He loved those.”

“Just a few crumbs,” answered OCD.

I nodded in understanding. “Yeah, he was probably saving those in case of a famine…” and I spent the next few hours explaining how Al Abrams had taught me the dark art of stock manipulation. Thrice weekly we’d meet for breakfast at the local Greek diner, where I had the pleasure of watching Al consume countless Linzer tortes, with half the torte making its way into his mouth and the other half making its way onto his cheeks and forehead; meanwhile, he would be drinking cup after cup of overcaffeinated coffee, until his hands shook.

Through it all—through all the slobbering and shaking and squeaking and squawking—he gave me the education of a lifetime. But, alas, unlike my education from Mike, this one concerned the dark side of things, the seedy underbelly of Wall Street’s over-the-counter market—which was the precursor to the NASDAQ—where stocks traded by appointment, and prices were set at the self-serving whims of dark-intentioned men like Al and me.

Most troubling, I admitted, was that it wasn’t long before I was teaching Al a thing or two. Within weeks, in fact, I was modernizing his rather dated stock scams—bringing my own flair and panache to them, along with the sort of brazenness that would come to characterize the Wolf of Wall Street.

By now it was a little after five, and I was finally done singing on Court Street for the day, a day that my captors considered a great success. After all, they now knew exactly how Stratton Oakmont came into existence and how—through a series of tiny coincidences and happenstances—it wound up on, of all places, Long Island.

Before I left the debriefing room, the last thing I asked the Bastard was how long he thought it would be until I actually got sentenced. Would it be three years? Four years? Perhaps even five years? The longer the better, I thought.

“Probably four or five years,” he answered. “These things have a way of dragging on sometimes.”

“That’s true,” added the Witch, “and they won’t be easy years. Your cooperation will be made public sometime next year, and we’ll be seizing your assets accordingly.”

Now OCD chimed in, offering me a thin ray of hope: “Yeah, but you’ll have a chance to start a new life. You’re a young guy, and next time you’ll do things right, hopefully.”

I nodded in agreement, hanging on to the words of OCD and the Bastard while ignoring those of the Witch. Unfortunately, they would all be wrong, and I would be seeing the inside of a jail cell long before that.

And I would lose everything.

CHAPTER 13

THE REVOLVING DOOR

Two Months Later

outhampton Beach! For better or worse, there was no denying that Meadow Lane was a fabulous place to watch the walls of reality come crashing down on me. The blue waters of the Atlantic were just behind me; the gray waters of Shinnecock Bay were just before me; and on either side of me, stately mansions—like mine—rose up from out of the dunes, like Greek temples bearing silent witness to how wonderful it was to be a wealthy WASP or a nouveau riche Jew.

My particular mansion, which would soon be owned by OCD and the Bastard, was a sprawling gray and white affair, built in the Cape Cod style. On the rear deck, a pool and Jacuzzi looked out over the Atlantic; on the front lawn, an all-weather tennis court looked out over the Shinnecock; and out in front, a row of immaculately trimmed box hedges rose up twelve feet in the air, concealing the property from view.

At this particular moment, I was sitting on a shabby-chic couch in the mansion’s shabby-chic living room, staring into the doelike eyes of Sarah Weissman,* self-proclaimed Jewish blow-job queen. She was sitting less than two feet away, wearing a black cotton turtleneck and black knit leggings, accentuating a tight little body that reeked of past beauty and present-day bulimia.

Nevertheless, the Blow-Job Queen was still a looker. Only twenty-two, she had a pleasantly narrow face, gleaming black hair, jet-black eyes, olive skin, a first-class nose job, ortho-perfect teeth, and a lower lip lusher than the Nile. And despite knowing her only fifteen minutes, I thought she seemed like a reasonably good egg. We’d met this evening at a local AA meeting and had hit it off instantly. She was newly sober (less than a week, actually), battling a triple addiction to crack, booze, and self-induced vomiting, the latter of which I found rather disgusting. But she was on the rebound now, fresh out of detox and back in the Hamptons, ready to resume her life.

Up until now we had made mostly small talk—trading war stories about our drug addictions—but apparently she was ready to get down to business, because she was in the middle of saying, “… that it’s Jewish girls who give the best bl*w j*bs in the world. Did you know that?”

“Uh… no,” I answered. “I’ve never dated a Jewish girl before.”

“Well, they do,” she said proudly, “and if you want, I’ll prove it to you.”

“Yeah, that would be great!” I answered, and the Jewish Blow-Job Queen quickly went to work—rising into a crouch and kneeing her way toward me with a lubricious smile on her face. Instinctively, I leaned back and rested my head on a soft, circular throw pillow, as the Blow-Job Queen reached forward with her tiny hands and unzipped my fly. Then, with remarkable efficiency, she pulled down my jeans to my ankles, climbed between my legs, and twisted her long black hair into a ponytail.

Suddenly she paused.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing, silly,” she said, as she removed her gold necklace, on the end of which dangled a diamond-studded Jewish star. She put it in her pocket. “I don’t want it to get in my way.”

I nodded in understanding, and I closed my eyes, hiked up my legs, and prepared for the bl*w j*b of a lifetime. It would be just what the doctor ordered, I thought. One hummer from the Blow-Job Queen and I would forget about the Duchess forever!

“Oww!” snapped the Blow-Job Queen. “There’s something jabbing me in my butt!” I looked down and—Christ! My ankle bracelet was jabbing the Blow-Job Queen in her bony butt.

I lowered my legs with the speed of a jackrabbit. “It’s nothing,” I said. “Just a beeper I wear for work. It’s okay; keep going.”

The Blow-Job Queen narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “A beeper, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, “a beeper.”

A few moments passed as she continued to stare. “All right,” she finally said. “I’ll take your word for it,” and she slowly leaned over and started blowing me… and it was one of those long, sumptuous bl*w j*bs, the sort a man only gets from his wife during the courting period.

I started moaning in appreciation: “Oh, God, Sarah! It feels sooo good. You were right: Jewish girls do give the best bl*w j*bs!”

“ Uhm-hum,” she mumbled, unable to speak.

“Ahhhh…” I moaned, and I closed my eyes and let my nervous system dissolve… letting my problems drift further and further away… until nothing mattered anymore… just the Blow-Job Queen and her bl*w j*b… and my mind started to wander…wander to the Duchess…. What was she doing right now? Was she at home with the kids, or was she out with another man? It was a weeknight, so she would probably be home with the kids… although I was hearing rumors that she was having an affair with her personal trainer, some Romanian dirtbag named Alex… although that was unimportant now…. It was the kids who were important … they were everything to me….

Just then—a cool sensation! I opened my eyes and the Blow-Job Queen’s head was popping up, a concerned expression on her face. “What’s wrong?” she said. “It doesn’t feel good?”

I looked down—oh, Christ! My penis looked like a strand of overcooked spaghetti! How very f**king embarrassing! “Oh… uh… no,” I mumbled, “everything’s fine. I mean, it’s the best bl*w j*b I ever got. It’s just that”—desperately I searched for the proper words—”uh, it’s just that you’re the, uh, the first girl I’ve been with in like, uh, ten years. I mean, not including my wife, of course—I mean, my ex-wife, or my soon-to-be ex-wife is more like it.” I paused for a second, asking myself if the fact that I’d slept with close to a thousand hookers while I was married to the Duchess meant I was now lying to the Blow-Job Queen.

I sat up straight and took a deep, troubled breath and let it out slow. “I’m really sorry,” I said softly. “Maybe it’s too soon for me. I’m not sure.” I shook my head sadly.

The Blow-Job Queen took no offense; instead, she offered me the warmest of smiles, an altogether maternal smile. “That’s okay,” she said. “I think it’s sweet that you’re nervous. It makes me want you even more.” She smiled again, and I noticed that her teeth were very white. That’s good, I thought. The Blow-Job Queen has very white teeth.

“Now, lie back down and relax,” she said warmly. “And stop worrying! Everything’s gonna be fine.” And, with that, the Blow-Job Queen placed her tiny hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me back down. “Just relax your mind…” she said, in a tone normally used by a hypnotist, “relax your body… relax everything… it’s all gonna be okay….”

I nodded dutifully and closed my eyes, thinking—Jesus H. Christ! The Blow-Job Queen really has her shit together! I mean, here she is, three days sober, a crack addict, a bulimic, an alcoholic, most certainly a pill-popper, and probably an anorexic too, yet she’s completely taken control of the situation. I felt lucky to have her.

And indeed I was. In no time flat, the Blow-Job Queen was humming away, with the sort of unbridled relish you usually see in p*rn videos. A few minutes later, I screamed, “Oh, my God! I”—I held back the words love you, which was what I truly felt like screaming, and screamed—”can’t take it anymore!” And a split second later I was done. True to her word, the Jewish Blow-Job Queen had gotten the best of me, and my body was now limp.

Just then she popped up her head and wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “So how do you feel now?” she asked provocatively.

“Amazing, Sarah. I feel truly amazing.”

She smiled broadly and kindly. “I’m glad,” she said happily. “I’m really glad,” and she started looking around the living room at the towering sandstone fireplace behind her, at the dozen pieces of shabby-chic furniture surrounding her—all the couches and armchairs and ottomans and coffee tables and end tables and the throw pillows and flowers and vases and paintings on the walls and, just off the living room, the shabby-chic dining-room table, which was larger than a horseshoe pit. Then she looked up at the thirty-foot ceiling, and then, finally, she looked at the plate-glass wall that ran the entire length of the back of the house and looked out over the Atlantic.

“You know,” she said, “this place is really beautiful. I mean, I’ve been around money before, but this place reeks of old money! You know what I mean?”

Old money? Jesus! If there were newer money anywhere in the Hamptons, I was yet to find it. Perhaps she meant evaporating money? That would be more accurate. “Thanks,” I said, “but it’s not old money, Sarah. It’s as new as it gets.” I smiled, eager to change the subject. “Anyway, you want to take a walk on the beach? It’s a beautiful night tonight.”

“I can’t,” she said sadly. “I gotta get home; my boyfriend’s waiting for me.”

I popped upright. “Your boyfriend! You have a boyfriend?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I live with someone. I probably shouldn’t be here. You know what I mean?”

I took a moment to run that through my mind and decided she was right: She probably shouldn’t be here. But, then again, at this time of year there weren’t many girls in the Hamptons, so if I let the Blow-Job Queen go I would be alone again. I took a moment to study her features. Was she beautiful enough? Could she stand up to the Duchess? She had a very nice nose, the Blow-Job Queen, and perhaps I could find peace through her bl*w j*bs. In fact, maybe I could even turn her into another Duchess! I could take her shopping and buy her clothes and jewelry, and then take her out for fancy dinners; maybe I would even introduce her to my kids. After all, she was sober for three whole days now and was definitely on the rebound. All in all, I would say, she was a very good catch!