Catching the Wolf of Wall Street
The voice of the actress: “So you think your husband’s gonna buy you the house?”
A suddenly weary Duchess: “Well, I’m still working on him. He’s very slick, so I have to handle him a certain way. See, I know he still wants to get back together with me, so I’m kind of using that to my advantage, you know, hinting that there’s still a possibility.” A pause, then: “I know it’s not the nicest thing to do, but I don’t have much of a choice anymore. I won’t lead him on any longer than I have to, though; once I get him to buy me the house, I’ll file for divorce the next day. Then I can move on with my life. Maybe fall in love with one of the local contractors or an electrician. That would be—”
Bo hit the stop button. “You heard enough, Bo?”
I looked at Bo, speechless. The Duchess had buried me on tape. Yet, of everything she’s said, it was the comment about doing it over and over again in the same position that had wounded me most. There had to be some words I could say to Bo to offset that poisonous comment. I racked my brain for them. They didn’t exist. I had been officially emasculated. The most important thing was to make sure that Debbie was sworn to secrecy. What must she think of me!
“You all right, Bo?” asked Bo.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m all right. I’m fine.” I took a deep breath and forced up a smile. “Anyway, it sounds like she still hasn’t made up her mind yet, you know, Bo? Maybe there’s still hope, right?” I started chuckling.
Bo smiled warmly. “That’s the spirit, Bo. You just gotta laugh it off.”
I nodded and smiled sadly, and then I looked around my beautiful home, marveling at its very splendor… and how little it all meant. The happiest I had ever been was with Denise, when we had nothing.
Just then Bo reached across the table and rested his massive hand on my forearm, squeezing it gently. In a dead-serious tone, he said, “Listen to me, Bo, because I’m not gonna bullshit you. What’s happened to you over the last six months should happen to no man. There’s no sugarcoating it. It sucks. It all sucks.” He shook his head slowly. “But you gotta take a deep breath now and pick up the pieces. It’s time to be a man. You understand, Bo? To be a man?”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I do.”
He squeezed my arm tighter now. “No woman can get the best of you, Bo, no wife, no girlfriend, no mistress, no one. Except one. You know who that is, Bo?”
I nodded slowly, fighting back tears now. “Chandler,” I said softly.
“That’s right, Bo: Chandler. She’s the only one who counts now; the rest of them will come and go out of your life. And you owe it to her to stiffen your upper lip and hold your head high, and you owe it to that little son of yours too.” Bo smiled nostalgically. “I remember when he was first born and almost died of meningitis. I’ll never forget how my heart dropped when Rocco called me that night from the hospital and told me what was going on. I went to church and said a prayer for him that night.”
I nodded, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “Well, it worked. He’s a good kid. He’s growing strong.”
Bo smiled. “Yes, he is, Bo, and he’s gonna keep growing; then he’s gonna look to you one day to show him what it means to be a man and to show him that no matter how much shit comes his way, in the end, he can always come out on top.” Bo shrugged his broad shoulders. “And that’s it, Bo, that’s the way it goes. Your kids are your constants; they’re the only ones who can keep you going through shit like this.
“Anyway, you’re about to find out who your true friends are and who was just along for the ride. Remember, friendships bought with money—”
“—don’t last very long,” I said.
Bo nodded. “And loyalty bought with money—”
“—isn’t loyalty at all,” I added.
“Exactly, Bo.” And with that he reached down to the tape recorder, hit the eject button, and removed the tape and held it up in the air. Then he said, “As far as I’m concerned, this whole thing never happened.” He slipped the tape into his inside suit-jacket pocket. “You don’t owe me anything for this, Bo. All I want is your friendship, because, I, for one, am truly your friend. And I always will be.”
And I knew he was.
*Name has been changed
CHAPTER 16
WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN
he next morning I woke up to:
Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!
I opened my right eye and, without lifting my head even an inch off the white silk pillowcase, I rolled my neck to the right and made eye contact with the phone of the future—a chrome-plated technological marvel, with two dozen red blinking lights and the world’s most annoying ring, the latter of which sounded like a tiny sparrow caught in an electrical wire. The phone was resting on a fabulously expensive end table—part of a matching set, of course.
Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo! “Jesus,”
I muttered. I was so sleepy… couldn’t move. My head seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.
Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!
Christ! Who was calling at this hour? The audacity! I popped upright and took a deep, troubled breath. The white silk comforter was draped over my legs now, covering my loins, and in spite of being alone, my vanity caused me to look down at my bare torso and run my fingers over my abdominal muscles. They felt good; I was in fabulous shape. That was important now, especially if I wanted to attract another Duchess, but it wasn’t nearly as important as being rich.
Well, at least I still had my mansion for a while. A shabby-chic mansion could be a very powerful aphrodisiac. I looked around the bedroom. The ceiling was thirty feet above the $150,000 tan and taupe carpet, and my bed was fit for a king. Thick bleached-wood poles, carved to resemble pinecones, rose up at all four corners of the bed, where they supported a canopy of tan and taupe Indonesian silk that matched the carpet perfectly. The Duchess loved her f**king canopies! And she loved her silk too. The mansion had seven bedrooms, and each one had a silk f**king canopy!
Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!
Fuck it! I reached over and picked up the chrome-plated phone.
“Hello?” I mumbled, in the sort of overly sleepy tone that implies you’ve been called at an inappropriate hour.
Alas, what I got in return was the bright and cheery voice of my least favorite codependent. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” declared the Duchess. “It’s eight-thirty! We have an appointment with the real estate broker in two hours!” Cheery, cheery, cheery!
Why, the impudence! I was speechless! At a complete loss for words! What would she say next, that she was going to wear my favorite perfume today? Christ! If I hadn’t promised not to blow Debbie’s cover, I would be giving the dirty Duchess a piece of my mind right now.
The Duchess, still happy: “Wake up, sleepy-boy! Today’s the first day of the rest of your life!” Then: “Why don’t you have Gwynne make you some coffee?”
“Gwynne doesn’t get here ‘til nine,” I said tonelessly. “And I’m not in the mood for coffee.”
The Duchess, picking up my tone: “Well, someone seems awful grumpy this morning! Why don’t you open the shades and let some light shine in? It’s beautiful outside.”
I clenched my teeth in rage and slowly turned my head to the left, to the fabulous taupe shades. Must be twenty feet high, those f**king shades, and they must’ve cost a fortune! God—how I’d love to have that money right now in cash!
Suddenly—a brainstorm! “You know what?” I said happily. “You’re right! I could use some light in here. Hold on a second, sweetie,” and I leaned over to the end table and grabbed the remote control of the future, which controlled everything in the bedroom, from the shades to the recessed lights to the twelve-foot-high entertainment center just across from the bed, with its forty-inch high-definition TV and $75,000 Fisher stereo system, which included, among other things, a three-hundred-CD disc changer.
First, the shades: Remote in hand, I hit a one-inch LCD square marked SHADES, and just like that, the shades slowly slid open, revealing a pair of twelve-foot-high French doors that opened onto a reddish mahogany deck looking out over the Atlantic. “Ah, light!” I said to the backstabber. “Hold on another second, sweetie,” and then I hit a button marked CD SEARCH—causing a new menu to pop up. I punched in the letters B—O—L—T—O—N, and an instant later Michael Bolton’s Greatest Hits popped onto the screen. This was accompanied by a rather annoying picture of him (with his big nose, narrow face, and ridiculous ponytail), along with a list of all seventeen of his ridiculously syrupy love songs, most of which he’d stolen from other, more talented artists and all of which were meant to manipulate the hearts and minds of unsuspecting females.
My teeth were still clenched in rage when I placed my index finger over the song “When a Man Loves a Woman,” and pressed it gently. Then I moved my finger to the button marked VOLUME UP, and I pressed that too and held it for a few seconds.
The still-happy Duchess: “What are you doing over there?”
“Nothing,” I said, staring at my shabby-chic entertainment center and hearing a few clicks and clacks as the CD changer did its thing. “I’m just putting on some music to start my day.”
“Really?” she said, a bit confused. Then: “Okay! I’m heading out to the beach soon. I figured we’d spend the day together.”
“Well, before you get in the car, Nadine, I think you should know that I’m having second thoughts about the Hamptons thing. In fact, I think you should stay put for a while in Old Brookville.”
Not so happy suddenly: “What are you talking about? I thought we already discussed this.”
Just then I heard the opening notes to the song. I took a deep breath, determined not to tip my hand. “Yeah,” I said icily, “but you’re already set in your ways out there. You know, you’ve got all your activities lined up—all the Mommy and Me classes, the cooking classes. And I know how much you like having Alex as your personal trainer. Alex…” I paused for a moment, letting the Romanian dirt-ball’s name hang in the air. “I couldn’t imagine Alex spending an extra hour and a half driving out to the Hamptons. Know what I mean?”
“He doesn’t train me anymore,” she said nervously.
“Oh, really? What happened?”
“Nothing; we had, uh, a little bit of a falling-out.”
Well, that’s what happens when you f**k your personal trainer! I thought. But I couldn’t just come out and say that, because that would compromise Bo. So I said, “Well, that’s what happens when you f**k your personal trainer! You have a falling-out!” Sorry, Bo!
“What are you talking about?” she said defensively.
With venom: “Oh, you’re gonna deny that you f**ked that slime-bucket of a Romanian?”
“I… I didn’t.”
“Oh, save it, Nadine! I know that smelly f**k was sleeping in my bed. I heard all about it.”
Just then I heard the repulsive voice of the ponytailed bastard: “When a man loves a woman, can’t keep his mind on nothin’ else.”
I help up the phone to the ceiling for a second—to the 80-watt Bose surround-sound speakers—and then I put it back to my ear and heard the Duchess say, “…you please turn down the music!”
“It’s not that loud,” I snapped, and I held the phone back up to the speakers again. Then I put it back to my ear and heard her scream, “… with you, Jordan! Stop! Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?” I asked innocently. “Blasting Michael Bolton or talking about the Romanian slimeball? Which one?”
Calm panic: “Who’s telling you all this?”
With a hiss: “Oh, please, Nadine! Who do you think you’re dealing with? I’ve known about this shit for months!”
The Duchess struck back: “Yeah—well—who the f**k are you to throw stones? Like you’ve been a f**king angel out there? You slept with that disgusting Jewish girl who gave you all the bl*w j*bs!” A moment of silence, then the Duchess continued, “I also know about all those crazy Russian girls. You’ll never change! You’re a whoremonger!”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I snarled, “and you’re a f**king codependent, who f**ks her fellow codependents—like that washed-up golf pro from Pennsylvania. What did he offer you: free golf lessons with every lay?”
The Duchess, incredulous: “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Through clenched teeth: “I’ll never forgive you for what you did, Nadine. You left me on the courthouse steps, you f**king bitch!”
Right back at me: “And you kicked me down the stairs, you f**king drug addict! I hope you die in jail!”
“Oh, yeah?” I snapped. “Well, I hope you die of codependency!” And I slammed down the phone. “Fucking whore!” I muttered to the phone of the future. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. Then the phone rang: Broooo!—Broooo! I picked it up in a millisecond: “What the f**k do you want now?”
“Well, f**k you too!” snapped my attorney. “What, are you having a bad morning over there?”
“Oh, hey, Greg!” I said happily. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “What’s going on with you?”
I thought about that for a second. “Oh, nothing really. Just a little spat with my soon-to-be ex-wife.”
“I see,” said Magnum. “And can I ask why you’re blasting Michael Bolton at eight-thirty in the morning? The guy sucks!”
“Oh, shit! Hold on a second.” I pressed pause on the remote control. “Sorry about that. I’m not a Michael Bolton fan; trust me. In fact, I’m gonna toss that f**king CD right in the microwave, just as soon as I get off the phone with you.”
“And why is that?” asked my attorney.
“Is this conversation privileged?”
“All our conversations are privileged.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Well, I just found out that the Duchess was f**king Michael Bolton. Can you imagine?”
“Really?” said Magnum. “The guy’s a loser! She could do better.”
“Oh, thanks a lot, Greg. Maybe you’re not catching my drift here: Michael—Fucking—Bolton was porking my wife!”
“While you were together?”
“No! Not while we were married! Afterward!”
“So what are you so upset about? You haven’t exactly been sitting on your hands out there. Anyway, can you come into the city today?”
“Why? Did something bad happen?”
“I wouldn’t say bad,” he replied, “but it’s not the best news in the world. I worked out your deal with Joel.”
“How long can I keep the houses for?” I asked quickly.
“Well, it’s different for you and Nadine,” he answered cautiously. “But I’d rather discuss it in person. Take a ride into the city, and we’ll order up some sandwiches and have a working lunch. I’d like Nick to be a part of this too.”
I thought for a moment, deciding whether or not to press for more details, but then he said, “And I have some good news for you too, and it concerns your friend Joel. So keep your chin up and I’ll see you in a few hours, okay?”
I smiled into the phone. “You got it!” I said heartily. “I’ll be there by noon.” And I hung up the phone of the future, knowing that Magnum could mean only one thing: The Bastard was leaving the U.S. Attorney’s Office.
My towering attorney was sitting behind his desk, the starchy Yale-man was sitting to my right, and I was sitting directly across from Magnum at just the right angle to sneak peeks at a photograph of him and Judge Gleeson, which had been taken when they worked together at the U.S. Attorney’s Office. And as the three of us engaged in idle chatter about the deficiencies in our golf swings, I found myself tuning in and out—focusing on the picture of Judge Gleeson instead and praying that when the time came he would remember that Magnum and he were good friends.
“… causes me to shank the ball,” Magnum was now saying. “That’s why I keep my right elbow close to my hip.” He shrugged knowingly. “It’s the key to any good golf swing.”
Who gives a shit! I thought. “Yeah, that’s true,” I said, and can we please get down to my case, for Chrissake?
The Yale-man chimed in. “It is,” he added, “but that’s not your problem, Greg. It’s your grip. It’s much too weak; that’s why you keep hitting off the hozzle.” He shrugged. “It’s simple geometry, really. When you cut across…”
Oh, Jesus Christ! Save me! I tuned out again. I had been in their office for fifteen minutes, and so far so good. As I’d suspected, the Bastard was planning to leave the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Just when, Magnum wasn’t so sure, although he’d heard from “reliable sources” that the Bastard would be gone before the year was out. The good news was, that meant someone else would be writing my 5K letter, and, chances were, they’d be more benevolent than the Bastard.
The bad news, however, was that the Bastard would want my cooperation made public before he resigned. There were a multitude of reasons for this, Magnum explained, not the least of which was that my guilty plea (and subsequent cooperation) was a big-time feather in the Bastard’s cap, which he would use to secure a partnership at a major law firm. In addition, there was an emotional component involved, inasmuch as the Bastard wanted his fifteen minutes of fame, where he would get to hold a press conference and say: “Not only have I brought the Wolf of Wall Street to justice, but I’ve also turned him into a world-class rat—thereby making unprecedented leaps toward the eradication of small-cap securities fraud in America.”
What the Bastard wouldn’t say, however, was that small-cap securities fraud was more prevalent now than in Stratton’s heyday. In fact, with the proliferation of the Internet, stock scams had been elevated to an entirely new level, and God only knew how many millions were being lost each day as a result of puffed-up e-mails, fraudulent message boards, and dot-com mania.
Still, there was no denying that the Bastard’s departure was good news for me, so the three of us had felt entitled to spend the last few minutes congratulating ourselves. My lawyers seemed to be chalking it up to some clever legal strategy on their part, although I was convinced that it had more to do with my long-term value as a rat exceeding the Bastard’s patience to work for the federal government at near slave wages. Whatever the case, this information was strictly on the QT, and I was not to breathe a word of it to anyone.