Catching the Wolf of Wall Street

“Anyway, by the time I met Nadine, Denise and I were spending more time apart than together, and I was sleeping with Blue Chip hookers a dime a dozen.” I shrugged and shook my head sadly. Then I said, “And when Nadine and I went out on our first date, I got a lot more than I bargained for. I was expecting a dumb blonde, who I could spoil rotten in exchange for mooring rights.”

OCD cocked his head to the side. “Mooring rights?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “mooring rights: like my dick is the boat and her p**sy is the mooring.” I shrugged innocently. “Anyway, Nadine, as it turned out, was not a dumb blonde, and by the end of the night I was totally captivated. When we pulled up to the front of her apartment, I was trying to figure out a way to seduce her, but I never got the chance, because she came right out and said, ‘You want to come upstairs for a cup of coffee?’ Next thing I knew I was inside her tiny apartment, saying, ‘Jesus, Nae, this is a really cute place,’ but what I was really thinking was: How the hell am I going to get this girl into bed?

“And then she said, ‘Why don’t you start a fire? I need to go to the bathroom for a second.’ So I said, ‘Sure…” although, in retrospect, I remember being a bit shocked that a girl as pretty as she was even went to the bathroom! I mean, she seemed way too perfect-looking to ever have to take a dump! You know what I’m saying?”

OCD started chuckling. “You’re demented. You know that?”

“Of course,” I said proudly, “but that’s besides the point. So, anyway, there I am, crouched in front of her fireplace, searching my demented skull for the perfect line to get her into bed, and then I hear, ‘Okay! I’m back!’ And I turn around and there she is, stark nak*d, in her birthday suit!”

OCD’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me!”

“Nope!” I said. “I ended up sleeping over there that night—I told Denise I was stuck in Atlantic City—and, from there, things quickly spiraled out of control. At first we were going to see each other only once a week, on Tuesday nights. We wouldn’t even speak in between. And that lasted for about a day and a half, at which point we started speaking every day on the phone—just for a few minutes, though, and just to check in to see how our days were going. But that quickly turned into a few hours a day, although I’m not sure how. So I figured that I needed to just spend a few days with her alone—you know, to get her out of my system. So I told Denise that I needed to go to California on business. And that was the end: Nadine and I fell madly in love and started speaking on the phone nonstop and meeting in the afternoons to let our rogue hormones out for a romp! It was sometime in late January when I finally told Denise that I needed space, and that’s when I moved into the city, to Olympic Towers.

“Ironically, Denise still had no idea that I was even having an affair. I’d been pretty careful about things—at least in the beginning— but once I moved into the city that changed too. By mid-February Nadine and I were out dancing in nightclubs and holding hands across a table at Canastel’s, which was one of the hottest restaurants in Manhattan back then. Everyone knew me there, and someone, I guess, called Denise one night to give her a heads-up that I was out for dinner with Nadine. A few hours later, when my limo pulled up in front of Olympic Towers, the door swung open, but instead of the doorman standing there, it was Denise. And, to make matters worse, I happened to be right on top of Nadine at the moment, engaged in a passionate kiss and telling her how much I loved her.

“‘You stay the f**k in the car!’ Denise screamed at Nadine. ‘And you get the f**k out of the car!’ she screamed at me. Then she did a double take at Nadine and her face dropped. ‘You’re the girl from the party,’ she said softly. Suddenly both of them were in tears at the same time.” I paused and shook my head sadly. “So I turned to Nadine, who was white as a ghost now, and I squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘I need to take care of this,’ I said gently. ‘Why don’t you go home and I’ll call you in a little while, okay?’

“ ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said through tears. ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen, I feel terrible.’ And that was true, of course. Neither of us meant for it to happen, and we both felt terrible about it. But it did happen, and the fact that we felt bad about it didn’t make it any easier on Denise.” I shook my head slowly, trying to make sense of it all. “In a way, you don’t choose who you fall in love with, you know? It just sort of happens. And when you do fall in love—that all-consuming love, that lusty love, where two people live and breathe each other twenty-four hours a day—what do you do then?” I shrugged and answered my own question: “There’s nothing you can do. You can’t be without the other person for more than a few hours without going crazy. And that was the sort of love Nadine and I had. We were spending every waking moment together. Even when I went to work, which was seldom, she would drive out to Long Island with me and then keep herself busy until lunch. And when she had modeling appointments, I would drop her off and wait outside until she was done. We were obsessed with each other.

“Anyway, the limousine pulled away and it was just Denise and me. The doorman had run inside the building when he heard Denise screaming at me. She was screaming at the top of her lungs: ‘How could you do this to me? I married you when you had nothing! I stuck with you through thick and thin! When you were bankrupt I cooked for you! And made love to you! I was a good wife! And this is how you repay me? How could you do this?’

“At first I tried to put up an argument, mostly out of instinct, but there was nothing to say, really. She was a hundred percent right, and we both knew it. So I just stood there apologizing to her over and over again, telling her I didn’t mean for it to happen. Finally she said, ‘Just tell me you don’t love her; that’s all I ask.’ She grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye, and there were tears streaming down her cheeks. She said, ‘Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not in love with her, Jordan. Please. As long as you’re not in love with her, we can work it out.’

“But after a few seconds, I shook my head and said, ‘I’m so sorry, but I am in love with her. I didn’t mean for this to happen.’ And I started crying myself. ‘I’ll always take care of you,’ I said. ‘You’ll never want for anything.’ It was no use. She broke down and started shaking in my arms.

“I can tell you that I felt like the biggest louse on earth at that moment.” I shook my head sadly. “And Denise just kept sobbing uncontrollably, right there in the street. But then, out of nowhere, her friend Lisa emerged from the shadows, and she grabbed Denise and hugged her. Lisa said to me, ‘It’s okay, Jordan. I’ll take care of her now. She’ll be all right,’ and then she winked at me and led Denise away.

“I was bowled over by that. I mean, I would’ve expected Lisa to be shooting daggers at me with her eyes, and she wasn’t. But what I didn’t know back then was that Lisa was in the middle of her own affair; that would come out a few months later, when she got caught cheating with some local playboy type on Long Island. Then she got divorced too.” I looked at OCD and shrugged. “And that’s it, Greg. That’s Lifestyles of the Dysfunctional on the North Shore of Long Island. And it’s not a pretty picture.”

From there we spent a few minutes talking about what happened after—my marriage to Nadine, the birth of my children, my escalating drug habit, and, finally, we turned to the subject of the Chef.

“The problem,” I said, “is that people like Dennis and me get so caught up in the cover story that when we talk about the past we stick to the cover story and don’t tell the truth. It has nothing to do with him thinking I’m wired. If he did, he wouldn’t even be returning my call.

“It has more to do with protocol than anything—that when you discuss the past you hedge by mentioning the cover story. That’s why when you listen to tapes of us, he always starts by saying things like, ‘You know, there are two versions of things: our version and their version,’ and then he goes on talking about juries and reasonable doubts.”

OCD nodded. “It’s a valid point, and, of course, I’m aware of it. But over time people tend to get sloppy. So we wait for a break.”

I shook my head no. “It won’t happen with the Chef. The cover story, to him, is more truthful than the truth. That’s why we have to take a different tack.”

“What’s that?”

“Well,” I said confidently, “I think it’s time to leave the past behind and look to the future.” And, with that, I told OCD my plan.

CHAPTER 20

ALL MEN BETRAY

his time was different.

The Nagra was my shield, the microphone was my sword, and the words rolled off my tongue with such ease and fluidity that I could have gotten John Gotti to share every last detail of how he and his crew whacked Paul Castellano in front of Sparks Steak House.

Yes, I thought, having a clear conscience is a wonderful thing for a cooperator.

A rat? No, no. I was no such thing. After all, a rat gives up his friends, and I didn’t have any. I had been betrayed by everyone: Dave Beall, Elliot Lavigne, my own wife, for Chrissake, and, if given the chance, by the Jersey Chef too.

So now it was my turn.

It was Friday afternoon, a little past two, and the Chef and I had just arrived at a small, well-appointed office I kept in Plainview, Long Island, which was halfway between Manhattan and the Hamptons. Plainview was a boring town—so boring, in fact, that in the entire history of Long Island no conversation had ever begun with: “You’ll never believe what happened in Plainview the other day…”

Well, that was about to change!

I was determined to make, before the afternoon was out, the most incriminating consensually recorded conversation in the history of not only Plainview but also of Manhattan, New Jersey, the eastern seaboard of the United States, and, for that matter, the entire world.

But, first, opening pleasantries. We exchanged hugs and hellos as I led the Chef to a small seating area. An oxblood-colored leather couch and two matching club chairs surrounded a brass-and-glass coffee table. As we took seats on the couch, the Chef said, “I didn’t even know you still had this place!”

“Yeah,” I said casually. “I didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. I’m sentimental, I guess.” I smiled warmly at the Chef, who, as usual, looked as cool as a cucumber in his light-gray business suit and red shepherd’s check necktie. I was dressed more casually, in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a white polo shirt, both of which were doing a fine job of concealing my sword and shield.

The Chef smiled back. “Well, it’s a nice place. I always liked it.”

I watched with an icy detachment as the Chef looked around the room. In the past, I had always found the Chef’s presence soothing—that proud way he carried his baldness, the very squareness of his jaw, his aquiline nose, that infectious smile—yet I had also found the Duchess to be soothing, hadn’t I? And where was she now? And where was Dave Beall now? And where was that bastard Elliot Lavigne now? All men betray, I reminded myself, and all women too. So why feel guilty? No reason to; no reason at all.

“It is,” I said, smiling. “Anyway, what’s the latest and greatest? How’s the wife, the kids, your golf swing…” and, with that, we spent the next few minutes engaged in meaningless small talk.

Actually, it wasn’t so meaningless, because ever so subtly I was making two very important points: first, that I was in fine spirits and feeling better every day, and second, that once my legal problems were resolved I was looking forward to a bright future, which included the Chef as my friend, confidant, and adviser. My demeanor said that I was calm and confident, a man who deals with his problems with strength and honor.

After a few minutes, I casually steered the conversation to the status of my court case. “It’s obvious that my best option is to cop a plea, because if I go to trial and lose, I’m gonna get slammed so hard, it’ll be f**king ridiculous!” I shrugged. “Each money-laundering count carries ten years, and I’m facing five of them. But, on the flipside, if I plea-bargain it’ll only be to securities fraud, which carries a lot less time.”

The Chef nodded. “How much time would you have to do?”

I shrugged. “Six years, according to Greg, but that’s before my deductions; after good time, the drug program, and six months in a halfway house, I’m looking at closer to three, which—believe me—I can do standing on my head.”

“I like it,” said the Chef. “I like it a lot. And what about Danny?”

“The same as me, I’m sure. Our lawyers are still working together on a joint defense, but it’s only for cosmetic reasons. If the U.S. Attorney’s Office thinks we’re going to trial, it’ll make it easier to cut a deal when the time comes.”

“Clearly,” said the Chef. “That’s always been my philosophy: You fight tooth and nail, and then—badaboom!—you cut a deal on the courthouse steps.” He paused briefly and started nodding again. “Well, this is good, this is real good. How big a fine you think you’ll have to pay?”

“I’m not really sure,” I said, seeming unconcerned. Then I stopped, looked around the room suspiciously, and I lowered my voice to just above a whisper (no problem for the Nagra, of course) and added, “And, personally, I couldn’t give a shit. I got so much money socked away, I’m set forever. And I got it here and there”— I swung my head toward the door—”on both sides of the Atlantic.”

The Chef nodded in understanding. “Good,” he whispered, although his tone was not quite as hushed as mine. “That’s your safety net.”

I nodded and whispered back, “You always told me that, Dennis. Maybe if I would’ve used your people in the first place, I wouldn’t be dealing with all this shit now.”

The Chef pursed his lips and nodded. “This is true,” he said. “But it’s not worth crying over. It’s spilt milk.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all about it. And a man must learn from his mistakes, right?” I winked. “Well, this man has learned, the hard way. The only problem is”—I started lowering my voice again— “that I still got a ton of cash overseas. More than ten million, and I’m not too comfortable with who I got it with. It’s only two steps away from Saurel, and he’s the bastard who ratted me out in the first place!”

The Chef threw his palms up in the air. “Sooo, let’s move it! What’s the big deal?”

“No, uh, it’s no big deal!”—and Jesus Christ! I thought. The Chef had just buried himself right on tape! “It’s just that you’re the only one I trust. I mean, my days of being reckless are over—seriously!”

“They better be,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “What country is the money in?”

“Actually, it’s in two countries: Switzerland and Liechtenstein,” I answered, and my mind began double-tracking wildly. On track one, the words were coming automatically, as if on tape. “I have it spread over seven different accounts, five in Switzerland and two in Liechtenstein….” As I kept on speaking, track two began organizing all the topics I needed to discuss to make sure that my tape would secure a money-laundering indictment against the Chef—he had to know that my money was the proceeds of illegal activity; he had to know that I had no intention of reporting the transaction to the government; the amount had to be in excess of one million dollars (to receive the maximum penalty); and, peculiar to this case, I had to figure out a way to tie in my money-laundering activities with those of the Blue-eyed Devil’s. “… which is no problem,” track one was saying to the Chef. “It’s the cash Lavigne kicked me back from all the new issues, and most of it came from Hong Kong. So I know it’s untraceable.”

“What we need to do,” said the Chef, “is set up new accounts over there, and we need to do it immediately. I got some good people for that; they’re the same people I used with Bob.” Bingo! I thought. “What I’m thinking, though, is that we should stay away from Switzerland for a while, at least until the dust settles.”

“I completely agree,” I said quickly. “I would hate to see my money get snatched by the feds. I had to rathole a lot of new issues to generate ten million in cash.”

“Don’t worry,” the Chef said confidently. “They’ll never find the money, not with my people. They’re experts.”

I nodded quickly, as my mind raced ahead. Clearly, the Chef had already incriminated himself in money laundering, but only in conspiracy. Could I push the envelope even further? I would try. “Let me ask you this,” I said, lowering my voice, as if I were still paranoid. “What if I wanted to move more cash overseas? I still got five million that Lavigne kicked back to me. I would love to get that money out of the country.”

“Not a problem,” said the Chef. “I know just the guy for it.”

You do? I thought. Holy Christ! “Oh, really? Who?” I asked, not expecting him to answer.

“His name is James Loo,” answered the Chef, as if I had just asked him for the name of his carpenter. “I think you might even know the guy. Bob took him public a while back. He’s as straight a shooter as they come.”

I nodded eagerly, wondering what the f**k had come over the Chef. He was one of the shrewdest men I’d ever met, yet for some inexplicable reason he had let his guard down. I said, “So James Loo has connections in Switzerland?”

The Chef shrugged. “Fuhgedabouddit! This guy has connections everywhere! Half his family still lives over in Asia, for Chrissake! He’ll get your money over to Hong Kong faster than you can get to your local Citibank. And he’s got people in Singapore, Malaysia… you name it.”

I nodded in understanding, almost too shocked to ask the next question. But I asked it anyway: “So you’re saying I could actually give James Loo the cash I got from Lavigne and he’ll smuggle it overseas for me without anyone finding out?”

The Chef nodded slowly, deliberately, and with the hint of a smile on his face. “Yes,” he finally said. “This is not a problem for James Loo.”

I decided to throw the Hail Mary pass: “And he already did this for Bob?”

The Chef nodded again. “Yes, he did, and with no problems. Bob gave him the money, and schhhwiitttt!” The Chef clapped his hands, with his patented sliding motion, sending his right arm flying out toward what he probably thought was Asia.

I threw an even longer Hail Mary pass: “Can I meet him?”