The Wolf Of Wall Street Part 18

After the mob finally settled down, I was presented with a going-away card. It was three feet by six feet, and on one side, in big red block letters, it read, To the World's Greatest Boss! To the World's Greatest Boss! On either side were handwritten notes-brief accolades from each of my Strattonites-thanking me for changing their lives so dramatically. On either side were handwritten notes-brief accolades from each of my Strattonites-thanking me for changing their lives so dramatically.

Later, after I went inside my office and closed the door for the last time, I couldn't help but wonder if they would still be thanking me five years from now.

CHAPTER 25

REAL REALS

How many reruns of Gilligan's Island Gilligan's Island can one man watch before he decides to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger? can one man watch before he decides to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger?

It was a frigid Wednesday morning, and in spite of it being eleven a.m., I was still lying in bed, watching television. Forced retirement, I thought-it ain't no f.u.c.king picnic.

I'd been watching a considerable amount of TV over the last four weeks-too much, according to the doleful d.u.c.h.ess-and, as of late, I had become obsessed with Gilligan's Island. Gilligan's Island.

There was a reason for that: While watching Gilligan's Island Gilligan's Island reruns, I made the shocking discovery that I was not the only Wolf of Wall Street. Much to my chagrin, there was someone sharing this not-so-honorable distinction with me, and he happened to be a b.u.mbling old WASP who'd been unlucky enough to get himself shipwrecked on Gilligan's Island. His name was Thurston Howell III, and, alas, he truly reruns, I made the shocking discovery that I was not the only Wolf of Wall Street. Much to my chagrin, there was someone sharing this not-so-honorable distinction with me, and he happened to be a b.u.mbling old WASP who'd been unlucky enough to get himself shipwrecked on Gilligan's Island. His name was Thurston Howell III, and, alas, he truly was was an idiot WASP. In typical WASP fashion he'd married a female of his species, an atrocious pineapple blond named Lovey, who was almost as great an idiot as he but not quite. Lovey felt it necessary to wear wool pantsuits, sequined ball gowns, and a full face of makeup, despite the fact that Gilligan's Island was somewhere in the South Pacific, at least five hundred miles from the nearest shipping lane where she would ever be seen by anyone. But WASPs are notorious overdressers. an idiot WASP. In typical WASP fashion he'd married a female of his species, an atrocious pineapple blond named Lovey, who was almost as great an idiot as he but not quite. Lovey felt it necessary to wear wool pantsuits, sequined ball gowns, and a full face of makeup, despite the fact that Gilligan's Island was somewhere in the South Pacific, at least five hundred miles from the nearest shipping lane where she would ever be seen by anyone. But WASPs are notorious overdressers.

I found myself wondering if it was only by sheer coincidence that the original Wolf of Wall Street was a b.u.mbling moron or if my nickname was meant meant to be a slight-comparing Jordan Belfort to an old WASP b.a.s.t.a.r.d with an IQ of sixty-five and a penchant for bed-wetting. Perhaps, I thought glumly, perhaps. to be a slight-comparing Jordan Belfort to an old WASP b.a.s.t.a.r.d with an IQ of sixty-five and a penchant for bed-wetting. Perhaps, I thought glumly, perhaps.

It was all very sad, and very depressing too. On a brighter note, I had been spending a great deal of time with Chandler, who had just started talking. It was crystal clear now that my early suspicions had been confirmed, and my daughter was a certifiable genius. I found myself resisting the urge to regard my daughter from a physical perspective-knowing full well that I could and would cherish every last molecule of her no matter how she looked. But the fact remained that she was absolutely gorgeous and looking more and more like her mother with each pa.s.sing day. Likewise, I found myself falling more deeply in love with her as I watched her personality unfold. She was a daddy's girl, and seldom a day went by when I didn't spend at least three or four hours with her, teaching her new words.

There were powerful feelings blossoming inside me, feelings I was entirely unfamiliar with. For better or worse, I came to the realization that I had never loved another human being unconditionally-including my wives and my parents. It was only now, since Chandler, that I finally understood the true meaning of the word love. love. For the first time, I understood why my parents had felt my pain-literally suffering alongside me-especially during my teenage years, when I'd seemed determined to waste my gifts. I finally understood where my mother's tears had come from, and I now knew that, I, too, would shed those very tears if my daughter were to end up doing what I had done. I felt guilty over all the pain I had caused my parents, knowing that it must have cut to their very cores. It was about unconditional love, wasn't it? It was the purest love of all, and up until now I had only been on the receiving end of it. For the first time, I understood why my parents had felt my pain-literally suffering alongside me-especially during my teenage years, when I'd seemed determined to waste my gifts. I finally understood where my mother's tears had come from, and I now knew that, I, too, would shed those very tears if my daughter were to end up doing what I had done. I felt guilty over all the pain I had caused my parents, knowing that it must have cut to their very cores. It was about unconditional love, wasn't it? It was the purest love of all, and up until now I had only been on the receiving end of it.

None of this diminished my feelings for the d.u.c.h.ess. Instead, it made me wonder if I could ever get to such a place with her, to that very level of comfort and trust where I could let my guard down and love her unconditionally. Perhaps if we had another child together, I thought. Or perhaps if we grew old together-truly old-and we both pa.s.sed that point where the physical body dictates so much. Maybe then I would finally trust her.

As the days pa.s.sed, I found myself looking to Chandler for a sense of peace, for a sense of stability, and for a sense of purpose in my life. The thought of going to jail and being separated from her was something that rested at the base of my skull like a deadweight, which would not be lifted until Agent Coleman had finished his investigation and found nothing. Only then would I rest easy. I was still waiting to hear back from Bo as to what intelligence he'd gathered from Special Agent Barsini, but he was having trouble nailing Barsini down.

And then there was the d.u.c.h.ess. Things had been going remarkably well with her. In fact, now that I had extra time on my hands, I was finding it much easier to hide my mushrooming drug habit from her. I had this wonderful program worked out where I would wake up at five in the morning, two hours before her, and drop my morning Ludes in peace. Then I would go through all four phases of my high-tingle, slur, drool, loss of consciousness-before she'd even wake up. Upon awakening, I would watch a few episodes of Gilligan's Island Gilligan's Island or or I Dream of Jeannie, I Dream of Jeannie, then spend an hour or so playing with Chandler. At noon, I would meet Danny for lunch at Tenjin, where we could be seen by all the Strattonites. then spend an hour or so playing with Chandler. At noon, I would meet Danny for lunch at Tenjin, where we could be seen by all the Strattonites.

After the market closed, Danny and I would meet again, at which point we would drop Ludes together. This would be my second high of the day. I'd usually arrive home around sevenish-after I was well past the drool phase-and have dinner with the d.u.c.h.ess and Chandler. And while I was certain the d.u.c.h.ess knew what I was up to, she seemed to be turning a blind eye to things-thankful, perhaps, that I was at least making an effort not to drool in her presence, which, above all things, enraged her.

Just then, I heard the phone beep. beep. "Are you awake yet?" asked Janet's obnoxious voice over the intercom. "Are you awake yet?" asked Janet's obnoxious voice over the intercom.

"It's eleven o'clock, Janet. Of course I'm awake!"

"Well, you haven't surfaced yet, so how am I supposed to know?"

Unbelievable! She still still showed me no respect, even now that she worked out of my house. It was as if she and the d.u.c.h.ess were constantly ganging up on me, poking fun at me. Oh, they pretended it was all in jest, all out of love, but it was all very raw. showed me no respect, even now that she worked out of my house. It was as if she and the d.u.c.h.ess were constantly ganging up on me, poking fun at me. Oh, they pretended it was all in jest, all out of love, but it was all very raw.

And what grounds did those two women have for making fun of me? Seriously! In spite of the fact that I was barred from the securities industry, I'd still managed to earn $4 million in the month of February; and, this month, although it was only March 3, I'd already made another million. So it wasn't like I was some worthless sea slug, just lying in bed all day, doing nothing.

And what the f.u.c.k did the two of them do all day, huh? Janet spent most of her day doting on Chandler and bulls.h.i.tting with Gwynne. Nadine spent her days riding those stupid horses of hers, then walking around the house dressed in an English riding ensemble of light-green stretch riding pants, a matching cotton turtleneck, and gleaming black leather riding boots that rose up to her kneecaps, as she sneezed and wheezed and coughed and itched from her intractable horse allergies. The only person in the house who truly understood me was Chandler, and maybe Gwynne, the latter of whom would serve me breakfast in bed and offer me Quaaludes for my back pain. Janet spent most of her day doting on Chandler and bulls.h.i.tting with Gwynne. Nadine spent her days riding those stupid horses of hers, then walking around the house dressed in an English riding ensemble of light-green stretch riding pants, a matching cotton turtleneck, and gleaming black leather riding boots that rose up to her kneecaps, as she sneezed and wheezed and coughed and itched from her intractable horse allergies. The only person in the house who truly understood me was Chandler, and maybe Gwynne, the latter of whom would serve me breakfast in bed and offer me Quaaludes for my back pain.

I said to Janet, "Well, I'm awake, so cool your f.u.c.king jets. I'm watching the Financial News Network."

Janet, the skeptic: "Oh, really? Me too. What's the guy saying?"

"f.u.c.k off, Janet. What do you want?"

"Alan Chemtob is on the phone; he says it's important."

Alan Chemtob, aka Alan Chemical-tob, my trusted Quaalude dealer, was a real pain in the a.s.s. It wasn't enough just to pay this societal leech fifty dollars a Quaalude and let him be on his way. Oh, no! This particular drug dealer wanted to be liked or loved or whatever the f.u.c.k he wanted. I mean, this fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d gave new meaning to the phrase your friendly neighborhood drug dealer. your friendly neighborhood drug dealer. Still, he did happen to have the best Ludes in town: a relative statement in the world of Quaalude addiction, with the best Ludes coming from those countries where legitimate drug companies were still allowed to manufacture them. Still, he did happen to have the best Ludes in town: a relative statement in the world of Quaalude addiction, with the best Ludes coming from those countries where legitimate drug companies were still allowed to manufacture them.

Yes, it was a sad story. As was the case with most recreational drugs, Quaaludes had once been legal in the United States but were subsequently outlawed after it came to the DEA's attention that, for every legitimate prescription being written, there were a hundred bogus ones. Now there were only two countries in the world manufacturing Quaaludes: Spain and Germany. And, in both those countries, controls were so strict it was nearly impossible to get any meaningful supply...

...which was why my heart started beating like a rabbit's when I picked up the phone and Alan Chemical-tob said, "You won't believe this, Jordan, but I found a retired pharmacist who has twenty real Lemmons that've been locked inside his safe for almost fifteen years. I've been trying to pry them out of him for five years, but he'd never let them go. Now he's gotta pay his kid's college tuition, and he's willing to sell them for five hundred dollars a pill, so I thought you might be inter-"

"Of course I'm interested!" I resisted the urge to call him a f.u.c.king moron for even questioning my interest. After all, there were Quaaludes and there were Quaaludes. Quaaludes. Each company's brand was of a slightly different formulation and, likewise, a slightly different potency. And no one had ever gotten it Each company's brand was of a slightly different formulation and, likewise, a slightly different potency. And no one had ever gotten it more right more right than the geniuses over at Lemmon Pharmaceuticals, which had marketed its Quaaludes under the brand name Lemmon 714. Lemmons, as they were called, were legendary, not only for their strength but for their ability to turn Catholic-school virgins into blow-job queens. In consequence, they had earned the nickname than the geniuses over at Lemmon Pharmaceuticals, which had marketed its Quaaludes under the brand name Lemmon 714. Lemmons, as they were called, were legendary, not only for their strength but for their ability to turn Catholic-school virgins into blow-job queens. In consequence, they had earned the nickname leg openers. leg openers. "I'll take 'em all!" I snapped. "In fact, tell the guy if he'll sell me forty I'll give him a thousand bucks a pill, and if he'll sell me a hundred I'll make it fifteen hundred. That's a hundred fifty thousand dollars, Alan." Good G.o.d, I thought, the Wolf was a rich man! Real Lemmons! Palladins were considered real Ludes, because they were manufactured by a legitimate drug company in Spain, so if Palladins were Reals, then Lemmons were... "I'll take 'em all!" I snapped. "In fact, tell the guy if he'll sell me forty I'll give him a thousand bucks a pill, and if he'll sell me a hundred I'll make it fifteen hundred. That's a hundred fifty thousand dollars, Alan." Good G.o.d, I thought, the Wolf was a rich man! Real Lemmons! Palladins were considered real Ludes, because they were manufactured by a legitimate drug company in Spain, so if Palladins were Reals, then Lemmons were...Real Reals!

Chemical-tob replied, "He only has twenty."

"s.h.i.t! Are you sure? You're not glomming any for yourself, are you?"

"Of course not," replied Chemical-tob. "I consider you a friend, and I would never do that to a friend, right?"

What a f.u.c.king loser, I thought. But my response was slightly different: "I couldn't agree with you more, my friend. When can you be here?"

"The guy won't be home 'til four. I can be in Old Brookville around five." Then he added, "But make sure you don't eat."

"Oh, please, Chemical-tob! I resent the fact that you'd even suggest that." With that, I bid him safe pa.s.sage. Then I hung up the phone and rolled around on my $12,000 white silk comforter like a kid who'd just won a shopping spree at FAO Schwarz.

I went to the bathroom and opened up the medicine cabinet and took out a box labeled Fleet Enema Fleet Enema. I ripped it open, then pulled my boxers down to my kneecaps and rammed the bottle's pointed nozzle up my a.s.shole with such ferocity that I felt it sc.r.a.pe the top of my sigmoid colon. Three minutes later, the entire contents of my lower digestive tract came pouring out. Deep down I was pretty sure that this wouldn't increase the intensity of my high, but, nonetheless, it still seemed like a prudent measure. Then I stuck my finger down my throat and vomited up the last of this morning's breakfast.

Yes, I thought, I had done what any sensible man would do under such extraordinary circ.u.mstances, perhaps with the exception of giving myself the enema before I'd made myself vomit. But I had washed my hands thoroughly with scalding hot water, so I redeemed myself for that tiny faux pax.

Then I called Danny and urged him to do the same, which, of course, he did.

At five p.m., Danny and I were playing pool in my bas.e.m.e.nt, waiting impatiently for Alan Chemical-tob. The game was eight ball, and Danny had been kicking my a.s.s for almost thirty minutes. As the b.a.l.l.s clicked and clacked, Danny bashed the Chinaman: "I'm a hundred percent sure the stock is coming from the Chinaman. No one else has that much."

The stock Danny was referring to was Stratton's most recent new issue, M. H. Meyerson. The problem was that as part of my quid pro quo with Kenny, I had agreed to give Victor large blocks of it. Of course, the stock had been given with the explicit instructions that he wasn't to sell it back-and, of course, Victor had completely disregarded those instructions and was now selling back every share. The truly frustrating part was that by the very nature of the NASDAQ stock market, it was impossible to prove this transgression. It was all supposition.

Nevertheless, by process of elimination it wasn't too difficult to put two and two together: The Chinaman was f.u.c.king us. "Why do you seem so surprised?" I asked cynically. "The Chinaman's a depraved maniac. He'd sell the stock back even if he didn't have to, just to spite us. Anyway, now you see why I told you to stay short an extra hundred thousand shares. He's sold all he can sell, and you're still in perfect shape."

Danny nodded glumly.

I smiled and said, "Don't worry, buddy. How much of that other stock have you sold him so far?"

"About a million shares."

"Good. When you get to a million-five, I'm gonna turn the Chinaman's lights out, and-"

I was interrupted by the doorbell. Danny and I turned to each other and froze in place, our mouths agape. A few moments later, Alan Chemical-tob came thumping down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs and started in with the personal c.r.a.p, asking, "How's Chandler doing?"

Oh, Jesus! I thought. Why couldn't he just be like any other drug dealer and hang out on street corners and sell drugs to schoolchildren? Why did he feel the need to be liked? "Oh, she's doing great," I replied warmly, and can you hand over the f.u.c.king Lemmons and can you hand over the f.u.c.king Lemmons? "How are Marsha and the kids?"

"Oh, Marsha's Marsha," he replied, grinding his jaw like the true c.o.ke fiend that he was, "but the kids are doing fine." He did some more jaw-grinding. "You know, I'd really love to open up an account for the kids, if that's okay. Maybe a college fund or something?"

"Yeah, sure." Just hand over the Ludes, you fat f.u.c.k! Just hand over the Ludes, you fat f.u.c.k! "Call Danny's a.s.sistant and she'll take care of it, right, Dan?" "Call Danny's a.s.sistant and she'll take care of it, right, Dan?"

"Absolutely," replied Danny through clenched teeth. On his face was a look that said, "Hand over the f.u.c.king Lemmons or suffer the consequences!"

Fifteen minutes later, Alan finally handed over the Ludes. I took one out and examined it. It was perfectly round, just larger than a dime, and it had the thickness of a Honey Nut Cheerio. It was snow-white...very clean-looking...and had a magnificent sheen, which served as visible reminder that in spite of it resembling a Bayer aspirin, it was the furthest thing from it. On one side of the pill, the brand name, Lemmon 714, was etched in thick grooves. On the other side was a thin line that ran the full diameter of the pill. Around the pill's circ.u.mference were the trademark beveled edges.

Chemical-tob said, "They're the real deal, Jordan. Whatever you do, don't take more than one. They're not like the Palladins; they're much stronger."

I a.s.sured him I wouldn't...and, ten minutes later, Danny and I were well on the road to paradise. Each of us had swallowed one Real Real, and we were now in my bas.e.m.e.nt gym, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The gym was packed with state-of-tha-art Cybex equipment and enough dumbbells and barbells and benches and squat racks to impress Arnold Schwarzenegger. Danny was walking on a motorized treadmill at a brisk pace; I was on the StairMaster, climbing, as if Agent Coleman were chasing me.

I said to Danny, "Nothing kicks in a Quaalude better than exercise, right?"

"Absa-f.u.c.kin-lutely!" exclaimed Danny. "It's all in the metabolism; the faster, the better." He reached over and picked up a white porcelain sake cup. "And this is genius, by the way. Drinking hot sake after consuming a real Lemmon is inspirational. Like pouring gasoline on a raging fire."

I grabbed my own sake cup and reached over to clink cups with Danny. Danny tried too, but the two pieces of equipment were six feet apart, and we found ourselves just out of reach.

"Nice try," said Danny, giggling.

"At least I get an A for effort!" I giggled back.

The two giggling idiots toasted each other in the air and downed the sake.

Just then the door swung open, and there she was: the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge, in her lime-green riding ensemble. She took one aggressive step forward and struck a pose, with her head c.o.c.ked to one side and her arms folded beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and her legs crossed at the ankles and her back slightly arched. Then she narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and she said, "What are you two r.e.t.a.r.ds doing?"

Christ! An unexpected complication! "I thought you were going out with Hope tonight?" I asked accusingly.

"Ahhh...ahhh...chooo!" sneezed my aspiring horseback rider, giving up her pose. "My allergies were so bad I had...had... sneezed my aspiring horseback rider, giving up her pose. "My allergies were so bad I had...had...ahhhh chooo!" sneezed the d.u.c.h.ess once more. "I had to cancel on Hope."

"Bless you, young d.u.c.h.ess!" said Danny, using my wife's pet name.

The d.u.c.h.ess's reply: "Call me d.u.c.h.ess again, Danny, and I'll pour that f.u.c.king sake over your head." Then, to me: "Come inside, I want to talk to you about something." With that, she spun on her heel and headed to the other side of the bas.e.m.e.nt, to a wraparound couch. It was just across from the indoor racquetball court, which had recently been converted into a clothing showroom in support of her latest aspiration: maternity designer.

Danny and I followed dutifully. I whispered in his ear: "You feel anything yet?"

"Nothing," he whispered back.

The d.u.c.h.ess said, "I was speaking to Heather Gold today, and she thinks it's the perfect time to get Chandler started horseback riding. So I want to buy her a pony." She nodded a single time, to emphasize her point. "Anyway, they have one there that's so cute, and it's not too expensive either."

"How much?" I asked, taking a seat beside the d.u.c.h.ess and wondering how Chandler was going to ride a pony when she hadn't even started walking yet.

"Only seventy thousand dollars!" answered a smiling d.u.c.h.ess. "Not bad, right?"

Well, I thought, if you'll agree to have s.e.x with me while I'm getting off on my Real Real, then I'll gladly purchase this overpriced pony for you, but all I said was, "Sounds like a real f.u.c.king bargain. I didn't even know they made ponies that expensive." I rolled my eyes.

The d.u.c.h.ess a.s.sured me that they did, and then to reinforce her point she nuzzled up next to me so I could smell her perfume. "Please?" she said in an irresistible tone. "I'll be your best friend."

At that very moment, Janet came walking down the stairs with a great smile on her face. "Hey, everybody! What's going on down here?"

I looked up at Janet and said, "Come downstairs and join the f.u.c.king party!" Obviously, she missed the sarcasm, and a moment later the d.u.c.h.ess had recruited Janet into her camp, and the two of them were now talking about how fine Chandler would look on horseback, in a cute little English riding ensemble, which the d.u.c.h.ess could have custom-made for G.o.d only knew how much.

Sensing an opportunity, I whispered to the d.u.c.h.ess that if she would come into the bathroom with me and allow me to bend her over the sink, I would be more than happy to make a special trip to Gold Coast Stables tomorrow and purchase the pony, just as soon as the eleven o'clock showing of Gilligan's Island Gilligan's Island was finished, to which she whispered, "Now?" to which I nodded yes and said, "Please," three times fast, at which point the d.u.c.h.ess smiled and agreed. The two of us excused ourselves for a moment. was finished, to which she whispered, "Now?" to which I nodded yes and said, "Please," three times fast, at which point the d.u.c.h.ess smiled and agreed. The two of us excused ourselves for a moment.

With little fanfare, I bent her over the sink and plunged inside her without even the slightest bit of lubrication, to which she said, "OW!" and then she sneezed and coughed again. I said, "Bless you, my love!" then I pumped in and out, twelve times fast, and came inside her like a rocket. Soup to nuts, the whole thing had taken about nine seconds.

The d.u.c.h.ess turned her pretty little head around and said, "That's it? You're done?"

"Uh-huh," I replied, rubbing my fingertips together and still feeling no tingles. "Why don't you go upstairs and use your vibrator?"

Still bent over the sink, the d.u.c.h.ess said, "Why are you so anxious to get rid of me? I know you and Danny are up to something. What is it?"

"Nothing; it's just business talk, sweetie. That's it."

"f.u.c.k you!" replied an angry d.u.c.h.ess. "You're lying, and I know it!" And with one swift move, she pushed off the sink with her elbows and I went flying backward and smashed into the bathroom door with a tremendous force. Then she pulled up her riding pants, sneezed, looked in the mirror for a second, fixed her hair, pushed me off to the side, and walked out.

Ten minutes later Danny and I were alone in the bas.e.m.e.nt, still stone-cold sober. I shook my head gravely and said, "They're so old they must've lost their potency. I think we should take another."

We did, and thirty minutes later: nothing. Not even one f.u.c.king tingle!

"Can you imagine this s.h.i.t?" said Danny. "Five hundred bucks a pill, and they're duds! It's criminal! Let me check the expiration date on the bottle."

I tossed the bottle to him.

He looked at the label. "December '81!" he exclaimed. "They're expired!" He unscrewed the top and took out two more Lemmons. "They must've lost their potency. Let's each take one more."

Thirty minutes later we were devastated. We'd each taken three vintage Lemmons and hadn't gotten so much as a tingle.

"Well, that's about all she wrote!" I sputtered. "They're officially duds."

"Yeah," agreed Danny. "Such is life, my friend."

Just then, over the intercom, came the voice of Gwynne: "Mr. Belfort, it's"-iz-"Bo Dietl on the phone."

I picked up the receiver. "Hey, Bo, what's going on?"

His reply startled me. "I need to speak to you right now," he snapped, "but not on this phone. Go to a pay phone and call me at this number. You got something to write with?"

"What's going on?" I asked. "Did you speak to Bar-"

Bo cut me off: "Not on this phone, Bo. But the short answer is yes, and I have some info for you. Now go grab a pen."

A minute later I was inside my little white Mercedes, freezing my a.s.s off. In my haste I had forgotten to put a coat on. It was absolutely frigid outside-couldn't have been more than five degrees-and at seven p.m. at this time of winter, it was already dark out. I started the car and headed for the front gates. I made a left turn onto Pin Oak Court, surprised to see a long row of cars parked on either side of the street. Apparently someone on my block was having a party. Wonderful! I thought. I just spent $10,000 on the worst Ludes in history, and someone is having a f.u.c.king celebration!