The Wolf Of Wall Street Part 10

"I will, baby, I will." I paused for a brief moment, then I said, "Honey?"

"What, sweetie?"

With a heavy heart: "I'm sorry for everything."

"For what, honey? What are you sorry for?"

"For everything, Nae. You know what I'm talking about. Anyway, I flushed all my Ludes down the toilet, and I haven't done one since the plane flight over."

"Really? How does your back feel?" How does your back feel?"

"Not too good, baby; it hurts really bad. But I don't know what to do. I don't know if there's anything I can can do. The last surgery made it even worse. Now it hurts all day long, and all night too. I don't know-maybe all the pills are making it worse or something. I'm not really sure anymore. When I get back to the States, I'll go see that doctor in Florida." do. The last surgery made it even worse. Now it hurts all day long, and all night too. I don't know-maybe all the pills are making it worse or something. I'm not really sure anymore. When I get back to the States, I'll go see that doctor in Florida."

"It'll work out, my love. You'll see. Do you know how much I love you?"

"Yes," I said, lying. "I do. And I love you back twice as much. Just watch what a great husband I'm gonna be when I get home, okay?"

"You're already great. Now go to sleep, baby, and come home safe to me as soon as you can, okay?"

"I will, Nae. I love you tons." I hung up the phone, lay down on the bed, and began pushing in the back of my left leg with my thumb, trying to find the spot where the pain was coming from. But I couldn't find it. It was coming from nowhere, and everywhere. And it seemed to be moving. I took a deep breath and tried to relax myself, to will away the pain.

Without even knowing it, I found myself saying that same silent prayer-that a bolt of lightning would come down from out of a clear blue sky and electrocute my wife's dog. Then, with my left leg still on fire, the jet lag finally got the best of me and I fell asleep.

CHAPTER 15

THE CONFESSOR

Heathrow Airport! London! It was one of my favorite cities in the world, save the weather, the food, and the service-the former of which was the worst in Europe, the middle of which was the worst in Europe, and the latter of which was the worst in Europe too. Nevertheless, you still had to love the Brits, or, if not that, at least respect them. After all, it's not every day that a country the size of Ohio, with a natural-resource base of a few billion pounds of dirty coal, can dominate an entire planet for more than two centuries.

And if that wasn't enough, then you had to be awed by the uncanny ability of a few select Brits to perpetuate the longest-running con game in the history of all mankind, namely-royalty! It was the most fabulous scam ever, and the British royals had done it just right. It was utterly mind-boggling how thirty million working-cla.s.s people could come to worship a handful of incredibly average people and follow their every move with awe and wonder. Even more mind-boggling-the thirty million were actually silly enough to run around the world calling themselves "loyal subjects" and bragging about how they couldn't imagine that Queen Elizabeth actually wiped her own a.s.s after taking a dump!

But in reality none of this mattered. The simple fact was that Aunt Patricia had been sp.a.w.ned from the very marrow of the glorious British Isles. And, to me, she was Great Britain's most valuable natural resource.

I would be seeing her soon, right after I cleared British Customs.

As the wheels of the six-seat Lear 55 touched down at Heathrow, I said to Danny, in a voice loud enough to cut through the two Pratt & Whitney jet engines, "I'm a superst.i.tious man, Danny, so I'm gonna end this flight with the same words I started it with: You're a real demented f.u.c.k!"

Danny shrugged and said, "From you, I'll take that as a compliment. You're not still mad at me for keeping a few Ludes off to the side, are you?"

I shook my head no. "I expect that sort of s.h.i.t from you. Besides, you have this wonderful effect of reminding me how truly normal I am. I can't thank you enough for that."

Danny smiled and turned his palms up. "Heyyyy-what are friends for?"

I smiled a dead smile back at him. "That aside, I'm a.s.suming you don't have any more drugs on you, right? I'd like to pa.s.s through Customs uneventfully this time."

"No, I'm clean-you flushed everything down the toilet." He lifted his right hand up in the scout's honor mode. Then he added, "I just hope you know what you're doing with all this Nancy Reagan c.r.a.p."

"I do," I replied confidently, but deep down I wasn't so sure. I had to admit that I was slightly disappointed that Danny hadn't squirreled away a few more Ludes. My left leg was still killing me, and while my mind was dead set on staying sober, the mere thought of being able to numb out the pain with even one Quaalude-just one!-was a fabulous prospect. It had been more than two days since my last Quaalude, and I could only imagine how high I'd get.

I took a deep breath and pushed the thought of Quaaludes back down below the surface. "Just remember your promise," I snapped. "No hookers while we're in England. You gotta be on your best behavior in front of my wife's aunt. She's a sharp lady and she'll see right through your bulls.h.i.t."

"Why do I even have to meet her? I trust you to look out for me. Just tell her that if something should happen to you-G.o.d forbid-she should take instructions from me. Besides, I wouldn't mind roaming the streets of London a bit. Maybe I'll go down to Savile Row, get a few new custom-made suits or something. Or maybe I'll even go down to King's Cross and check out some of the sights there!" He winked at me.

King's Cross was London's infamous red-light district, where for twenty British pounds you could get a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b from a toothless hooker with one foot in the grave and a raging case of herpes. "Funny, Danny, very funny. Just remember that you don't have Saurel here to bail you out. Why don't you let me hire you a bodyguard to take you around?" It was a phenomenal idea, and I was dead serious about it.

But Danny waved me off as if I had a screw loose or something. "Stop with the overprotective c.r.a.p," he exclaimed. "I'll be juuuust juuuust fine. Don't you worry about your friend Danny! He's like a cat-with nine lives!" fine. Don't you worry about your friend Danny! He's like a cat-with nine lives!"

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. But what could I do? He was a grown man, wasn't he? Well, yes and no. But that was besides the point. I needed to be thinking about Aunt Patricia right now. In a couple of hours I would be seeing her. She always had a calming influence over me. And a little bit of calming would go a long way.

"So, love," said Aunt Patricia, strolling arm in arm with me along a narrow tree-lined path in London's Hyde Park, "when shall we get started on this wonderful adventure of ours?"

I smiled warmly at Patricia, then took a deep breath and relished the cool British air, which at this particular moment was thicker than a bowl of split-pea soup. To my eyes, Hyde Park was very much like New York City's Central Park, insofar as it being a tiny slice of heaven encircled by a burgeoning metropolis. I felt right at home here. Even with the fog, by ten a.m. the sun was high enough in the sky to bring the entire landscape into high relief-turning five hundred acres of lush fields and towering trees and well-trimmed bushes and immaculately groomed horse trails into a vision so picturesque it was worthy of a postcard. The park was favored with just the appropriate number of sinuous concrete walking paths, which were all freshly paved and hadn't a speck of litter on them. Patricia and I were walking on one of them at this very moment.

For her part, Patricia looked beautiful. But it wasn't the sort of beauty you see in a sixty-five-year-old woman in Town & Country Town & Country magazine, the supposed barometer of what it means to age gracefully. Patricia was infinitely more beautiful than that. What she had was an inner beauty, a certain heavenly warmth that radiated from every pore of her body and resonated with every word that escaped her lips. It was the beauty of perfectly still water, the beauty of cool mountain air, and the beauty of a forgiving heart. Physically, though, she was entirely average. She was a bit shorter than I and on the slender side. She had shoulder-length reddish-brown hair, light blue eyes, and fair white cheeks, which bore the expected wrinkles of a woman who'd spent the greater part of her adolescence hiding in a bomb shelter beneath her tiny flat, to avoid the n.a.z.i Blitz. She had a tiny gap between her two front teeth that revealed itself whenever she smiled, which was often-especially when the two of us were together. This morning she wore a long plaid skirt, a cream-colored blouse with gold-colored b.u.t.tons running down the front, and a plaid jacket that matched her skirt perfectly. Nothing looked expensive, but it all looked dignified. magazine, the supposed barometer of what it means to age gracefully. Patricia was infinitely more beautiful than that. What she had was an inner beauty, a certain heavenly warmth that radiated from every pore of her body and resonated with every word that escaped her lips. It was the beauty of perfectly still water, the beauty of cool mountain air, and the beauty of a forgiving heart. Physically, though, she was entirely average. She was a bit shorter than I and on the slender side. She had shoulder-length reddish-brown hair, light blue eyes, and fair white cheeks, which bore the expected wrinkles of a woman who'd spent the greater part of her adolescence hiding in a bomb shelter beneath her tiny flat, to avoid the n.a.z.i Blitz. She had a tiny gap between her two front teeth that revealed itself whenever she smiled, which was often-especially when the two of us were together. This morning she wore a long plaid skirt, a cream-colored blouse with gold-colored b.u.t.tons running down the front, and a plaid jacket that matched her skirt perfectly. Nothing looked expensive, but it all looked dignified.

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 a.n.u.shka 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 n.a.z.is, 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 a.n.a.logy, but I a.s.sumed 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 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sport 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 p.i.s.sing in the fate G.o.d's eye. If you did it long enough, he was certain to p.i.s.s right back at you. And his urine stream was like a f.u.c.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 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 (G.o.d 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 horses.h.i.t. 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.u.c.king commies. And socialized medicine- 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 (G.o.d 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 horses.h.i.t. 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.u.c.king commies. And socialized medicine-real socialized medicine-was nothing short of a commie plot! 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! 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. 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 cla.s.sroom 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 c.o.c.ky, Patricia. I don't wanna come off that way. I'm just trying to be honest with you so you can really 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. 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 manipulate events are the more appropriate words. It's like playing a game of chess with your own life. And I hate f.u.c.king chess!" are the more appropriate words. It's like playing a game of chess with your own life. And I hate f.u.c.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! 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 c.o.ke, so it doesn't really count. Remember?"

Patricia nodded and smiled warmly. Her expression bore not an ounce of judgment.

I plowed on: "Well, that aside, I was never able to stop my mind from racing, even when I was small. I had terrible insomnia when I was young-and I still have it today. But it's even worse now. I used to stay up all night long and listen to my brother's breathing, watching him sleep like a baby. I grew up in a tiny apartment, and we shared a room. I loved him more than you can possibly imagine. I have a lot of good memories about that. And now we don't even talk anymore. Another victim of my so-called success. But that's another story.

"Anyway, I used to dread the nighttime...or actually fear the nighttime, because I knew I wouldn't be able to fall asleep. I used to stay up all night long and stare at a digital alarm clock that was next to my bed and multiply the minutes times the hours, mostly out of boredom but also because my mind seemed to force me into repet.i.tive tasks. By the time I was six years old, I could do four-digit multiplication in my head faster than you could do it on a calculator. No kidding, Patricia. I can still do it today. But back then my friends hadn't even learned to read yet! That wasn't much conciliation, though. I used to cry like a baby when it was time to go to bed. That's how scared I was of my panic attacks. My father would come into my room and lie down with me and try to calm me down. My mother too. But both of them worked and couldn't stay up with me all night. So eventually I was left alone with my own thoughts. Over the years, most of the bedtime panic went away. But it never really left me. It still haunts me every time my head hits the pillow in the form of intractable insomnia-terrible, terrible insomnia.

"I've spent my entire life trying to fill a hole that I can't seem to fill, Patricia. And the harder I try, the bigger it seems to get. I've spent more time than..."

And the words started rolling off my tongue, as I began the process of spewing out the venom that had been ripping apart my innards for as long as I could remember. Perhaps I was fighting to save my life that day or, if not that, then certainly my sanity. In retrospect, it was as good a place as any for a man to bare his soul, especially a man like me. After all, on the tiny isle of Great Britain, there was no Wolf of Wall Street and no Stratton Oakmont, both of which were an ocean away. There was just Jordan Belfort-a scared young kid-who'd gotten himself in way over his head and whose very success was fast becoming the instrument of his own destruction. The only question I had was, would I get to kill myself first-on my own terms-or would the government get me before I had the chance?

Once Patricia got me started, I couldn't seem to stop. Every human being, after all, is possessed with the undeniable urge to confess his sins. Religions were built on such things. And kingdoms were conquered with the promise that all sins would be forgiven afterward.

So for two straight hours I confessed. I desperately tried to rid myself of the bitter bile that was wreaking havoc on my body and spirit and driving me to do things that I knew were wrong and to commit acts that I knew would ultimately lead to my own destruction.

I told her the story of my life-starting with the frustration I'd felt growing up poor. I told her of the insanity of my father and how I resented my mother for failing to protect me from his vicious temper. I told her how I knew my mother had done her best, but, somehow, I was still viewing those memories through the eyes of a child, so I couldn't seem to completely forgive her. I told her about Sir Max and how he was always there for me when it mattered most and how, once again, it made me resent my mother for not being there like he was at those crucial moments.

And I told her how much I still loved my mother despite that and how much I respected her too, even though she'd drilled into my head that becoming a doctor was the only honorable way to make a lot of money. I explained how I rebelled against that by starting to smoke pot in sixth grade.

I told her how I overslept for my medical boards because I had done too many drugs the night before and how as a result of that I ended up in dental school instead of medical school. I told her the story of my first day of dental school, when the dean got up before the incoming cla.s.s and explained how the Golden Age of Dentistry was over and if you were becoming a dentist to make a lot of money, then you should quit now and save yourself the time and aggravation...and how I got up right then and there and never went back.

And from there I explained how that led me into the meat-and-seafood business and ultimately to Denise. It was at this point when my eyes began to well up with tears. With great sadness, I said, "...and we would get down on our hands and knees and roll up change to pay for shampoo. That's how poor we were. When I lost all my money, I thought Denise would leave me. She was young and beautiful, and I was a failure. I was never all that confident with women, Patricia, in spite of what you or anyone else might think. When I first started making money in the meat business, I a.s.sumed it would somehow make up for that. And then when I met Denise, well, I was convinced that she loved me for my car. I had this little red Porsche back then, which was a pretty big deal for a kid in his early twenties, especially a kid from a poor family.

"I tell you the truth-when I first laid eyes on Denise I was absolutely blown away. She was like a vision. Absolutely gorgeous! My heart literally skipped a beat, Patricia. I was driving my truck that day and was trying to sell meat to the owner of the haircutting shop Denise worked at. Anyway, I chased her around the hair salon and asked her for her phone number a hundred times, but she wouldn't give it to me. So I raced home, picked up my Porsche, and drove back and waited outside her shop to make sure she saw it when she came out!" At this point I flashed Patricia an embarra.s.sed smile. "Can you imagine? What kind of man with any self-confidence does that? What a f.u.c.king embarra.s.sment I was! Anyway, what's really ironic is that since I started Stratton, every kid in America thinks it's their f.u.c.king birthright to own a Ferrari by the age of twenty-one." I shook my head and rolled my eyes.

Patricia smiled and said, "I suspect, love, that you're not the first man to see a pretty girl and run home to get his fancy car. And I also suspect that you won't be the last. In fact, not far from here there's a section of the park called Rotten Row, where young men used to parade their horses around in front of the young ladies in the hopes of getting inside their bloomers one day." Patricia chuckled at her own statement, then added, "You didn't invent that game, love."

I smiled graciously. "Well, I'll give you that, but I still feel like a bit of a fool, anyway. As far as the rest of the story goes...you already know it. But the worst part is that when I left Denise for Nadine, it was all over the newspapers. What a f.u.c.king nightmare that must've been for Denise! I mean, she was a twenty-five-year-old girl who was dumped for some young hot model. And the newspapers painted her to be some old socialite who'd lost her s.e.x appeal-like she was being traded in for a girl who still had some life left in her! That kinda stuff happens all the time on Wall Street, Patricia.

"My point is that Denise was young and beautiful too! Don't you see the irony in that? Most rich men wait to trade in their first wives. I know you're a smart lady, so you know exactly what I'm talking about. That's the way of things on Wall Street, and, as you say, I didn't invent that game. But everything in my life became accelerated. I missed my twenties and thirties and went straight to my forties. There are things that happen during those years that build a man's character. Certain struggles, Patricia, that every man needs to go through to find out what it means to really be a man. I never went through that. I'm an adolescent inside a man's body. I was born with certain gifts-from G.o.d-but I didn't have the emotional maturity to use them in the right way. I was an accident waiting to happen.

"G.o.d gave me half the equation-the ability to lead people and to figure things out in ways that most people can't. Yet He didn't bless me with the restraint and patience to do the right thing with it.

"Anyway, everywhere Denise went, people would point at her and say, 'Oh, that's the one that Jordan Belfort dumped for the Miller Lite girl.' I tell you the truth, Patricia, I should've been horsewhipped for what I did to Denise. I don't care if it's Wall Street or Main Street. What I did was in-f.u.c.king-excusable. I left a kind, beautiful girl, who'd stuck with me through thick and thin, who bet her future on me. And when her winning ticket finally came in-I canceled it on her. I'm gonna burn in h.e.l.l for that one, Patricia. And I deserve to."

I took a deep breath. "You can't imagine how hard I tried to justify what I did, to place some blame on Denise. But I never could. Some things are just inherently wrong, and you can look at them from a thousand different angles but, at the end of the day, you always come to the same conclusion, which-in my case-is that I'm a dirty rotten scoundrel, who left his loyal first wife for a longer set of legs and a slightly prettier face.

"Listen, Patricia-I know it might be hard for you to be impartial in this matter, but I suspect that a woman of your character can look at things the way they oughta be looked at. The simple fact is that I'll never be able to trust Nadine the way I trusted Denise. And no one will ever be able to convince me otherwise. Perhaps forty years from now, when we're old and gray, well, then maybe I'll consider trusting her. But that's still a long shot."

Patricia said, "I couldn't agree with you more, love. Trusting any woman you met under those circ.u.mstances would require quite a leap of faith. But there's no use torturing yourself over it. You can spend your whole life looking at Nadine through narrowed eyes and wondering 'what if?' In the end you might turn the whole thing into a self-fulfilling prophecy. When it's all said and done, it's the energy we send out into the universe that often comes back to us. That's a universal law, love.

"But on a separate note, you know what they say about trust: In order to trust someone, you need to trust yourself. Are you trustworthy, love?"

Oh, boy! That was quite a question! I ran it through the mental computer and didn't like the answer the computer spit back at me. I rose from the bench and said, "I have to stand, Patricia. My left leg is killing me from sitting so long. Why don't we walk for a while? Let's head toward the hotel. I want to see Speaker's Corner. Maybe someone will be standing on a soapbox bashing John Major. He's your prime minister, right?" That was quite a question! I ran it through the mental computer and didn't like the answer the computer spit back at me. I rose from the bench and said, "I have to stand, Patricia. My left leg is killing me from sitting so long. Why don't we walk for a while? Let's head toward the hotel. I want to see Speaker's Corner. Maybe someone will be standing on a soapbox bashing John Major. He's your prime minister, right?"

"Yes, love," replied Patricia. She rose from the bench and hooked her arm in mine. We walked along the path, heading toward the hotel. Matter-of-factly, she said, "And then after we hear what the speaker has to say you can answer my last question, okay, love?"

This woman was too much! But I had to love her! My confessor! "All right, Patricia, all right! The answer to your question is: no! I'm a f.u.c.king liar and a cheater and I sleep with prost.i.tutes the way most people put on socks-especially when I'm f.u.c.ked up on drugs, which is about half the time. But even when I'm not high on drugs, I'm still a cheat. So there! Now you know. Are you happy?"

Patricia laughed at my little outburst, then shocked the h.e.l.l out of me by saying, "Oh, love, everyone knows about the prost.i.tutes-even your mother-in-law, my sister. It's somewhat of a legend. I think in Nadine's case, she's decided to take the good with the bad. But what I was really asking was if you ever had an affair with another woman, a woman you had feelings for."

"No, of course not!" I shot back with great confidence. And then, with less confidence, I took a moment to search my memory to see if I was telling the truth. I had never really cheated on Nadine, had I?...No, I really hadn't. Not in the traditional sense of the word. What a happy thought Patricia had placed in my head! What a wonderful lady she was!

Still, this subject was something I would just as soon avoid, so I began talking about my back...and how the chronic pain was driving me insane.... I told her about the surgeries, which hadonly made it worse...and I explained how I'd tried taking narcotics-everything from Vicodin to morphine-and how they made me nauseous and depressed...so I took antinausea drugs and Prozac to offset the nausea and depression...but the nausea drugs gave me a headache, so I took Advil, which upset my stomach, so I took Zantac, to combat my stomachache, which raised my liver enzymes. Then I told her how the Prozac affected my s.e.x drive and made my mouth dry...so I took Salagen to stimulate my salivary glands and yohimbe bark for the impotence...but in the end I stopped taking those too. Ultimately, I explained, I had always come back to Quaaludes, which seemed to be the only drug that truly killed the pain.

We were just approaching Speaker's Corner when I said sadly, "I fear that I'm completely addicted to drugs now, Patricia, and that even if my back didn't hurt I still wouldn't be able to stop taking them. I'm starting to have blackouts now, where I do things that I can't remember. It's pretty scary stuff, Patricia. It's like part of your life has just evaporated-poof!-gone forever. But my point is that I flushed all my Quaaludes down the toilet and now I'm dying for one. I've actually been thinking about having my a.s.sistant send my driver over here on the Concorde, just so I can have some Ludes. That'll cost me about twenty thousand dollars, for twenty Ludes. Twenty thousand dollars! But I'm still thinking about doing it.

"What can I say, Patricia? I'm a drug addict. I've never admitted that to anyone before, but I know it's true. And everyone around me, including my own wife, is scared to confront me about it. In one way or another they all rely on me for their living, so they enable me. And cajole me.

"Anyway, that's my story. It's not a pretty picture. I live the most dysfunctional life on the planet. I'm a successful failure. I'm thirty-one going on sixty. Just how much longer I'll make it on this earth, only G.o.d knows. But I do love my wife. And I have feelings for my baby girl that I never thought I was capable of. In a way, she's what keeps me going. Chandler. She's everything to me. I swore I would stop doing drugs after she was born, but who was I kidding? I'm incapable of stopping, at least for very long.

"I wonder what Chandler'll think when she finds out that her daddy is a drug addict? I wonder what she'll think when her daddy winds up in jail? I wonder what she'll think when she's old enough to read all the articles and finds out about her daddy's exploits with hookers? I dread that day, Patricia, I sincerely do. And I have no doubt that day will come. It's all very sad, Patricia. Very, very sad..."