The Wolf of Wall Street

I said to Patricia, “If possible, I’d like to go to Switzerland tomorrow. But if that’s not good for you, I’ll wait in London as long as you like. I have some business here, anyway. I have a jet waiting at Heathrow that can have us in Switzerland in under an hour. If you want, we can spend the day together there and do some sightseeing or some shopping.

“But, again, Patricia”—I paused and looked her dead in the eye—“I want you to promise me you’re going to spend at least ten thousand pounds per month out of the account, okay?”

Patricia stopped in mid-stride, unhooked her arm from mine, and placed her right hand over her heart. “My child, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to spend that much money! I have everything I need. I really do, love.”

I took her hand in mine and began walking again. “Perhaps you have everything you need, Patricia, but I’m willing to bet you don’t have everything you want. Why don’t you start by buying yourself a car and stop taking those double-decker buses everywhere? And after you get a car, you can move to a bigger apartment that’s got enough room for Collum and Anushka to sleep over. Just think how nice it would be to have extra bedrooms for your two grandkids!”

I paused for a brief moment, then added, “And within the next few weeks I’ll have the Swiss bank issue you an American Express card. You can use it to pay all your expenses. And you can use it as often as you like and spend as much as you like, and you’ll never get a bill.”

“But who will pay the bloody bill?” she asked, with confusion.

“The bank will. And—like I said—the card will have no limit. Every pound you charge will bring a smile to my face.”

Patricia smiled, and we walked in silence for a while. But it wasn’t a poisonous silence. It was the sort of silence shared by two people who’re comfortable enough not to force a conversation ahead of its logical progression. I found this woman’s company to be incredibly soothing.

My left leg was feeling somewhat better now, but that had little to do with Patricia. Activity of any sort seemed to diminish the pain—whether it was walking, playing tennis, lifting weights, or even swinging a golf club, the latter of which seemed rather odd to me, considering the obvious stress it placed on my spine. Yet the moment I stopped, the burning would start. And once my leg caught fire, there was no way to extinguish it.

Just then Patricia said, “Come sit down with me, love,” and she led me toward a small wooden bench, just off the walking path. When we reached the bench we unhooked arms and Patricia sat down beside me. “I love you like a son, Jordan, and I am only doing this because it helps you—not because of the money. One thing you’ll find as you grow older is that, sometimes, money can be more trouble than it’s worth.” She shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, love, I’m not some silly old fool who’s lost her marbles and lives in a dream world where money doesn’t matter. I’m well aware that money matters. I grew up digging myself out of the rubble of World War Two, and I know what it’s like to wonder where your next meal is coming from. Back in those days we weren’t sure of anything. Half of London had been blown to smithereens by the Nazis, and our future was uncertain. But we had hope, and a sense of commitment to rebuilding our country. That was when I met Teddy. He was in the Royal Air Force then, a test pilot, actually. He was really quite dashing. He was one of the first people to fly the Harrier jet. Its nickname was the Flying Bedstand.” She smiled sadly.

I reached my arm around the back of the bench and gently placed my hand on her shoulder.

In a more upbeat tone, Patricia said, “Anyway, the point I was trying to make, love, is that Teddy was a man who was driven by a sense of duty, perhaps too driven. In the end, he let it get the best of him. The higher he climbed, the more uneasy he became about his station in life. Do you see what I’m saying, love?”

I nodded slowly. It wasn’t a perfect analogy, but I assumed her point had something to do with the perils of chasing a preconceived notion of what it meant to be successful. She and Teddy were now divorced.

Patricia soldiered on: “Sometimes I wonder if you let money get the best of you, love. I know you use money to control people, and there’s nothing wrong with that. That’s the way of the world, and it doesn’t make you a bad soul to try to work things in your favor. But I’m concerned that you allow money to control you—which is not all right. Money is the tool, my child, not the mason; it can help you make acquaintances but not true friends; and it might buy you a life of leisure but not a life of peace. Of course, you know I’m not judging you. That’s the last thing I’d do. None of us is perfect, and each of us is driven by our own demons. God knows I have my share.

“Anyway, getting back to this whole caper you’ve cooked up—I want you to know that I’m all for it! I find the whole thing rather exciting, in fact. I feel like a character in an Ian Fleming novel. It’s really quite racy, this whole overseas-banking business. And when you get to my age, a little bit of raciness is what keeps you young, isn’t it?”

I smiled and let out a gentle laugh. “I guess, Patricia. But as far as the raciness goes, I’ll say it again: There’s always a slight chance that some trouble might arise, at which point the raciness might get a bit racier than old Ian Fleming might’ve liked. And this won’t be in a novel. This’ll be Scotland Yard knocking at your door with a search warrant.”

I looked her directly in the eye, and I said in a tone implying the utmost seriousness, “But if it ever comes to that, Patricia—and I swear this to you—I’ll come forward in two seconds flat and say that you had no idea what was going on with any of this. I’ll say that I told you to go to the bank and give them your passport and that I promised you there was nothing wrong with it.” As I said those words I was certain they were true. After all, there was no way that any regulator on the planet would believe this innocent old lady would take part in an international money-laundering scheme. It was inconceivable.

Patricia smiled and replied, “I know that, love. Besides, it would be nice to spoil my grandchildren a bit. Perhaps they would even feel indebted enough to come visit me while I’m doing time in prison—after the bobbies have carted me away for international bank fraud, right, love?” With that, Patricia leaned forward and started laughing raucously.

I laughed right along with her, but inside I was dying. There were certain things that you just didn’t joke about; it was simply bad luck. It was like pissing in the fate god’s eye. If you did it long enough, he was certain to piss right back at you. And his urine stream was like a f**king fire hose.

But how would Aunt Patricia know that? She had never broken the law in her entire life until she met the Wolf of Wall Street! Was I really so awful a person that I was willing to corrupt a sixty-five-year-old grandma in the name of plausible deniability?

Well, there were two sides to that coin. On one side was the obvious criminality of the whole thing—corrupting a grandma; exposing her to a lifestyle she’d never needed or wanted; placing her liberty at risk; placing her reputation at risk; perhaps even causing her a stroke or some other stress-related disorder if things ever went awry.

But on the flip side—just because she’d never needed or wanted a life of wealth and extravagance didn’t mean it wasn’t better for her! It was better for her, for Chrissake! With the extra money, she’d be able to spend the twilight of her life in the lap of luxury. And (God forbid) if she ever got sick, she would have access to the finest medical care money could buy. I had no doubt that all that British nonsense about their egalitarian utopia of socialized medicine was nothing more than a bunch of happy horseshit. There had to be special medical treatment for those with a few million extra British pounds. That would be only fair, wouldn’t it? Besides, while the Brits might not be as greedy as the Americans, they weren’t f**king commies. And socialized medicine—real socialized medicine—was nothing short of a commie plot!

There were other benefits too, which, when taken together, all tipped the scale heavily in favor of recruiting the lovely Aunt Patricia into the illicit lion’s den of international bank fraud. Patricia herself had said that the sheer excitement of being part of a sophisticated money-laundering ring would keep her young, perhaps for years to come! What a pleasant thought that was! And, in truth, what were the chances of her really getting in trouble? Almost zero, I thought. Probably less than that.

Just then Patricia said, “You have this wonderful gift, love, to be engaged in two separate conversations at once. There’s one conversation that you’re having with the outside world—which, in this case, is your beloved aunt Patricia—and then there’s another conversation that you’re having with yourself, which you alone can hear.”

I let out a gentle laugh. I leaned back and spread my arms on either side of the top wooden slat, as if I were trying to let the bench absorb some of my worries. “You see a lot, Patricia. Since the day we met, when I almost drowned in a toilet bowl, I’ve always felt that you understood me better than most. Perhaps you even understand me better than I understand myself, although probably not.

“Anyway, I’ve been lost inside my own head for as long as I can remember—from the time I was a kid, maybe even as far back as nursery school.

“I remember sitting in my classroom and looking around at all the other kids and wondering why they just didn’t get it. The teacher would ask a question and I already knew the answer before she was done asking it.” I paused and looked Patricia square in the eye and said, “Please don’t take that as being cocky, Patricia. I don’t wanna come off that way. I’m just trying to be honest with you so you can really understand me. But since I was small, I was always far ahead—intellectually, I mean—of all the other kids my age. The older I got, the further ahead I became.

“And from the time I was a kid, I’ve had this bizarre internal monologue roaring through my head, which doesn’t stop—unless I’m asleep. I’m sure every person has this; it’s just that my monologue is particularly loud. And particularly troublesome. I’m constantly asking myself questions. And the problem with that is that your brain is like a computer: If you ask it a question, it’s programmed to respond, whether there’s an answer or not. I’m constantly weighing everything in my mind and trying to predict how my actions will influence events. Or maybe manipulate events are the more appropriate words. It’s like playing a game of chess with your own life. And I hate f**king chess!”

I studied Patricia’s face for some sort of response, but all I saw was a warm smile. I kept waiting for her to respond, but she didn’t. Yet by her very silence her message was crystal clear: Keep talking!

“Anyway, when I was about seven or eight I started getting terrible panic attacks. I still get them today, although now I take Xanax to quell them. But even thinking about a panic attack is enough to give me one. It’s a terrible thing to suffer from, Patricia. They’re absolutely debilitating. It’s like your heart’s coming out of your chest; like every moment of your life is its own eternity; the literal polar opposite of being comfortable in your own skin. I think the first time we met I was actually in the middle of one—although that particular one was induced by a couple a grams of coke, so it doesn’t really count. Remember?”