Catching the Wolf of Wall Street

And he would take care of the kids.

And what about the kids? What was best for them? Should they grow up on Long Island in the dark shadow of my legacy? Or would it be better for them to make a fresh start in California? Of course, my kids belonged with me, or at least near me. Of that much I was certain. But where did I belong? What was best for me?

Having little choice, I did what I had no doubt many men who’d been unfortunate enough to be a prisoner in Pod 7N had done before me: I went back to my bunk and pulled the covers over my head.

Then I cried.

CHAPTER 26

A NEW MISSION

March 2000

inally—freedom!

Fresh air! Free air! The blue dome of the sky! The orange ball of the sun! The glorious phases of the moon! The sweet smell of fresh flowers! The even sweeter smell of fresh Soviet p**sy! And to think I had taken all these things for granted! How foolish of me! Life’s simple pleasures were all that mattered, weren’t they? I had been to hell and back and had survived.

So it was that I emerged from the Metropolitan Detention Center on a chilly Monday morning, with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step—and with every aspect of my life in a complete f**king shambles.

Much could change in four months, and, in my case, much had: My kids were living in California; Meadow Lane was in the hands of the government; my furniture was in storage, my money was running out, and, to add insult to injury, I was wearing an ankle bracelet with restrictions so Draconian that I couldn’t even leave my house, except to see the doctor.

I had rented a sprawling duplex apartment on the fifty-second and fifty-third floors of the Galleria Building, an ultraluxury glass-and-concrete tower that rose up fifty-seven stories above Manhattan’s Park Avenue and 57th Street. (Why not be locked up in style? I figured.)

The building was an upscale haven for Eurotrash—of both the Eastern and the Western variety. From the West they came from places like Roma and Geneva and Gay Paree, and from the East they came from countries of the former Soviet bloc—mobsters, most of them, who also kept homes in Moscow or St. Petersburg, when they weren’t on the run. Not surprisingly, KGB fit in perfectly here, and one of her many Russkie friends had been kind enough to rent us this fabulous spread.

It was back in early December when Magnum asked me what address I wanted to be released to upon Gleeson approving the bail application. Meadow Lane wouldn’t work, he explained, because it was due to be forfeited by year’s end.

Given my circumstances, my options were few: To buy a home would be ridiculous, and to stay in Southampton would be even more ridiculous. What with the kids living in Beverly Hills and KGB’s heart belonging to Manhattan, there was no point to living in the middle of nowhere. Moreover, I needed to stay close to the U.S. Attorney’s Office, because, much to my chagrin, the Chef had refused to cooperate and was threatening to take his case to trial; if he actually did, I would be spending many nights burning the midnight oil at the U.S. Attorney’s Office in preparation.

Yet, as troublesome as I found the Chef’s decision, it played a distant second fiddle to my troubles with Chandler, who since mid-February had been beside herself with emotion. Eighty days had come and gone, and I hadn’t made my way around the world yet. She knew something was wrong, and my excuses had run out weeks ago.

“Where are you?” she kept whining. “Why won’t you come home? I don’t understand! You promised! You don’t love me anymore….”

And that was when the Duchess and I made peace with each other. We had exchanged hardly ten words since that horrific Wednesday morning, but we had no choice now. Our daughter’s suffering eclipsed our mutual disdain for each other.

The Duchess told me that Chandler had been upset for months, keeping a stiff upper lip on the phone only for my benefit. She had cried on Thanksgiving Day and hadn’t stopped crying since. Something had to be done, said the Duchess. Our strategy of protection had backfired on us. I suggested that she call Magnum to tell him what was happening, which she did—and Magnum headed down to the U.S. Attorney’s Office yet again, this time begging for action. Enough delays! he pleaded. This was no longer about Jordan Belfort; it was about a child, a child who was suffering.

And just like that it happened: Motions were made, hearings were held, details worked out, and on the last Friday in February, Judge Gleeson signed the order for my release. From there, Magnum immediately called the Duchess, who immediately called Gwynne, who immediately jumped on a plane to California. She landed on a Saturday, spent two nights at the Duchess’s new Beverly Hills mansion, and then boarded an early-morning flight back to New York, with the kids in tow. She was due to land at five p.m., in exactly three and a half hours from now.

With that thought, I took a deep, anxious breath and knocked on the gleaming walnut front door to Apartment 52C. I had been here once, and it was absolutely gorgeous inside. A grand black marble entryway led you to a mahogany-paneled living room with paintings affixed to the walls. The ceiling was twenty feet above a black Italian marble floor. Yet, as beautiful as the place was, it was also one of the saddest apartments in all of Manhattan—for it was here, in this very apartment, where Eric Clapton’s four-year-old son had accidentally fallen out a bedroom window. I had been reluctant to rent it because of that, but KGB had assured me that the apartment had been blessed by a priest and a rabbi.

Just then the door opened, but only a foot. A moment later I saw a familiar blond Soviet head pop through the gap. I smiled warmly at my favorite communist and said, in a Russkie accent, “Open door now!”

She pushed the door all the way open, but instead of throwing her arms around me and showering me with kisses, she just stood there with her arms folded beneath her br**sts. She was wearing a pair of very tight jeans. The denim was fiercely prefaded, the knees and thighs having the appropriate number of rips and holes in them. I wasn’t an expert on women’s jeans, but I knew that these had to cost a fortune. She wore a simple white midriff T-shirt that looked soft as mink. Her feet were bare, and she was tapping her right foot on the marble floor, as if she were debating whether or not she still loved me.

Feigning insult, I said, “Well, aren’t you going to give me a kiss? I have been locked up for four months!”

She shrugged. “Come get if you want.”

“Fine—I’ll get, you little minx!” And all at once I charged her, like a hormone-raged bull. She gave up her pose and started running.

“Help!” she screamed. “I being chased by capitalist! Help— Polizia!“

A curved mahogany staircase at the center of the living room rose up to the floor above, and she took the first three steps like a world-class hurdler. I was trailing a good five yards behind her, distracted by the sheer opulence of the place. The entire rear wall was plate glass, shoving the most awesome view of Manhattan in your face. Horny as I was, I couldn’t help but admire it.

By the time I hit the stairs, she was already sitting on the top step, her long legs hanging open with complete insouciance. She was leaning back casually, with her palms resting on the hardwood floor behind her. She wasn’t even a bit out of breath. When I reached the step beneath her I dropped to my knees, huffing and puffing. Having been locked up for so long, I was in a weakened condition. I ran my fingers through her hair, taking a moment to catch my wind. “Thanks for waiting,” I finally said. “Four months is a long time.”

She shrugged. “I am Russian girl. When our man sits in jail we wait.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips—softly, tenderly—and I pounced!

“I gotta make love to you right now,” I groaned. “Right here on the floor,” and before she knew what hit her, she was flat on her back and I was on top of her, grinding my jeans into her jeans, pelvis to pelvis. I kissed her deeply-passionately!

Suddenly she turned her head to the side and I was kissing her chiseled cheekbone. “Nyet!” she whined. “Not here! I have surprise for you!”

A surprise, I thought. Why couldn’t she just master definite and indefinite articles? She was so close to perfect! Perhaps there was a course she could take, a book she could read. “What kind of surprise?” I asked, still out of breath.

She started wriggling out from beneath me. “Come,” she said. “I will show you. It is in bedroom.” She grabbed my hand and started pulling me up.

The master bedroom was less than ten feet from the stairs. When I saw it, I was speechless. Dozens of lit candles were scattered throughout the room. They were everywhere, on the dark-gray carpet… on all four sides of the black lacquer platform bed… on the matching lacquer headboard, with its gently curved top and gold-leaf trim… and then lined up end to end on the twenty-foot-long windowsill at the far wall. Plush red velvet curtains blocked every last drop of sunlight from entering. The lights were off, and the flames flickered brilliantly.

On the king-size bed was a royal-blue Italian-silk comforter stuffed with so much goose down that it looked as soft as a cloud. We hit it with a giggle, and I quickly maneuvered myself on top of her. In less than five seconds we were out of our jeans and moaning passionately.

An hour later we were still moaning.

At precisely five p.m. the doorman called and said that I had three visitors downstairs. The adult was waiting patiently, he said with a chuckle, but the children weren’t. The boy had run past him and hit the elevator button, and he was still hitting it at this very moment. The girl, however, hadn’t passed him; she was standing in front of him right now, and she was eyeing him suspiciously. From the sound of his voice, she seemed to make him nervous.

“Send them up,” I said happily, and I hung up the phone, grabbed KGB, and walked downstairs to the fifty-second floor and opened the front door. A few moments later I heard the elevator doors slide open. Then the familiar voice of a little girl: “Daddy! Where are you, Daddy?”

“I’m here! Follow my voice!” I said loudly, and a moment later they turned the corner and were running toward me.

“Daddy’s home!” screamed Carter. “Daddy’s home!”

I crouched down, and they ran full speed into my arms.

For what seemed like an eternity, none of us said a word. We just kissed and hugged and squeezed one another for all we were worth, while KGB and Gwynne looked on silently. “I missed you guys so much!” I finally said. “I can’t believe how long it’s been!” I started nuzzling my nose into their necks and taking tiny sniffs of them. “I need to smell you guys to make sure it’s you. The nose never lies, you know.”

“It’s us!” insisted Chandler.

“Yeah,” added Carter. “It’s us!”

I held them at arms’ length. “Well, then, let me take a close look at you. You don’t have anything to hide, right?”

I pretended to study them. Chandler was as beautiful as ever. Her hair had grown out quite a bit since the summer and went down past her shoulder blades now. She was wearing a fire-engine-red corduroy dress held up by two thin shoulder straps with tiny red bows on them. Beneath it she wore a white cotton turtleneck and white ballet tights. She was a perfect little lady. I shrugged and said, “Okay—I’m convinced. It’s you!”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I told you!”

“What about me?” snapped Carter. “Is it still me too?” With that he rolled his head from side to side, offering me both sides of his profile.

As always, he was all eyelashes. His hair was a luxuriance of platinum-blond waves. He was dressed in jeans and sneakers and a red flannel shirt. It was hard to imagine that we had almost lost him as an infant. He was the picture of health now, a son to be proud of.

“Is it him?” Chandler asked nervously. “Or is he a robot?”

“No, it’s him, all right.” They ran back into my arms and started kissing me again. After a few seconds, I said, “Aren’t you guys gonna give Yulia a kiss? She missed you guys too.”

“No!” they shot back in unison. “Just you!”

Well, that wasn’t good! I knew KGB was sensitive to such things. It had something to do with the great Russian soul, although just how, I hadn’t the slightest idea. “Oh, come on,” I said, in a leading tone. “She deserves a kiss too, no?”

“Nooooooo!” they sputtered. “Only Daddy!”

Now Gwynne chimed in: “They just miss you so much they can’t ged enough a you! Ain’t that sweet?”

I looked up at KGB. She seemed insulted. I wanted to mouth the words: It’s only because they miss me! But I knew she couldn’t lip-read English. (She barely spoke the f**king language, for Chrissake!)

“This is okay,” she said, with a bit of a chill. “I will take suitcases upstairs.”

Upstairs, we walked down a long narrow hallway, at the end of which were two small bedrooms. One had been converted into a library; the other had two twin beds in it. As Gwynne and KGB went about unpacking the kids’ suitcases, the three of us sat on the maroon carpet, making up for lost time. There were many hints of Meadow Lane in this room—dozens of Chandler’s favorite dollies lined up along the windowsill, Carter’s sprawling wooden train set snaking its way around the carpet, his blue Thomas the Tank Engine comforter on one bed, Chandler’s $2,200 pink-and-white Laura Ashley comforter with its white lace trimming on the other. Chandler was already busy arranging her dollies into a perfect circle around us, while Carter inspected his trains for possible damage from the move. Every so often, KGB would look down at us and smile coldly.

“Okay,” I said, trying to break the ice, “here’s what Yulia and I have in store for you this week. Since we missed a whole bunch of holidays together. I figured—I mean, we figured—we should make up for lost time by celebrating them now!” I paused and cocked my head to the side in an attitude that implied logic. “Better late than never, right, guys?”

Carter said, “Does that mean we get more Christmas presents?”

I nodded. “It most certainly does,” I said quickly. “And since we also missed Halloween, we’re gonna get dressed up tomorrow night and go trick-or-treating!” With the exception of me, I thought. I would be faking a backache tomorrow night, lest I step foot out of the apartment and find myself back in Pod 7N the next day.

Chandler said, “Will people still give us candy now?”

“Of course!” I said, and no way! I thought. In this building you would have a better chance of seeing God. The Galleria was the sort of ultrapretentious snobitorium in which you could travel up and down in the elevator a thousand times and never see a child. In fact, in the entire history of the building, two young mothers had never bumped into each other and said, “Oh, my God! It’s so good to see you! Let’s arrange a play date for our kids!” Changing the subject, I said, “Anyway, we also missed Thanksgiving and Hanukkah and—”

Chandler cut me off. “We get more presents for Hanukkah, right?”

I shook my head and smiled. “Yes, wisenheimer, we get more presents for Hanukkah. And we also missed Christmas”—Carter shot me a suspicious look—”which, as Carter previously said, you will definitely get presents for”—Carter nodded once and then went back to his trains—”and then, last but not least, there’s New Year’s Eve. We’re going to celebrate them all.”

On Tuesday night we all wore costumes—including KGB, who, to my complete shock, broke out her Miss USSR sash and rhinestone tiara, while Carter and Chandler looked on, astonished. My costume, a garden-variety Western cowboy with a hat, a holster, and a semirealistic pair of toy six-shooters, was far less inspiring and not nearly as sexy. The children did the usual: Carter dressed up as a blue Power Ranger, and Chandler dressed as Snow White. Thankfully, our downstairs neighbor was nice enough to play along and give the kids candy.

On Wednesday night I made turkey and stuffing; the former I proudly baked into shoe leather, and the latter was of the Stove Top variety. The rest of the spread—the cranberry sauce, the gravy, the sweet-potato pie, the pumpkin pie, as well as a Russkie touch in the form of two ounces of premium beluga caviar (at $150 an ounce, from my rapidly depleting checkbook)—came from a nearby gourmet supermarket that gave new meaning to the term price-gouging.

On Thursday night my parents came over. We lit a menorah for the benefit of my mother, and Chandler and Carter got their Hanukkah presents (more money out of the checkbook). On Friday we went—or, should I say, they went—to Macy’s and bought an artificial Christmas tree, and then we spent the rest of the day listening to Christmas carols and decorating the tree. And, of course, they got more presents.

On Saturday night, which was our last night together, we celebrated New Year’s Eve—which turned out to be a real hoot, because I got to meet Igor for the first time. Magnum had been dead-on-balls accurate with his description, starting with his silver-colored hair, which looked like a thin layer of sizzling gunpowder, and even more so when it came to Igor’s posture, which, to my way of thinking, could only be the result of one of two things—either he’d spent countless years standing at attention in a secret KGB training camp or someone had once shoved an electrical cattle prod up his ass.

Whatever the case, Igor could drink, although, according to him, he was simply cleansing his liver in the Russian way—using vodka.

Yes, there was no denying that Igor was smart as well as very ambitious, although, more than anything, I got the distinct impression that what he really wanted was to possess the ultimate doomsday weapon to hold the world hostage. And why? Not for money or power or, for that matter, even sex! All Igor wanted was for everyone to shut up and agree with him.

It was a little after eight p.m., and we had decided to celebrate New Year’s Eve at the twelve-foot-long dining-room table, which like the rest of the furniture was grand, solemn, and comprised of black Italian lacquer. The room was just off the living room and shared the same spectacular view of Midtown Manhattan. At this hour of night, the lights of the city rose up behind us in a dazzling display.

In spite of me being the theoretical master-of-the-house, it was Igor who seemed determined to hold court tonight, while Chandler, Carter, and myself—all sporting glittering New Year’s Eve hats shaped like dunce caps—pretended to listen. KGB wore a dunce cap too, although she was hanging on Igor’s every word. It was nauseating.

From across the dining-room table, Igor said to me, “ Understand! I, Igor, with one snap of finger”—and he snapped his finger, as Chandler and Carter looked on, confused—”can make fire impossible!”

Now KGB chimed in. “He can; I have seen this.”