The Wolf Of Wall Street Part 28

Three hours later, the engines were still running but we were making no forward motion. There were four enormous container ships surrounding us. They had heard the Mayday and were trying to shield us from the oncoming waves. It was almost dark now, and we were still waiting to be rescued. The bow was pointing downward at a steep angle. Sheets of rain pounded against the window, the waves were thirty feet plus, and the winds were fifty knots or better. But we were no longer stumbling. We had our sea legs.

Captain Marc had been on the radio for what seemed like an eternity, talking to the Coast Guard. Finally, he said to me, "Okay, there's a helicopter hovering overhead; it's gonna lower down a basket, so get everyone up to the flybridge. We'll get the female guests off first, then the female crew members, then the male guests. The male crew will go last, and I'll go after them. And tell everyone, no bags allowed. You can take only what you can carry in your pockets."

I looked at the d.u.c.h.ess and smiled. "Well, there go all your new clothes!" She shrugged and said happily, "We could always buy more!" Then she grabbed me by the arm and we headed downstairs.

After I explained the program to everyone, I pulled Rob aside and said, "You got the Ludes?"

"No," he said grimly. "They're in your stateroom. It's completely flooded down there, maybe three feet of water-probably more by now."

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll tell you, Rob: I got a quarter million in cash down there and I couldn't give a s.h.i.t about it. But we gotta get those f.u.c.king Quaaludes. We have two hundred, and we can't leave 'em behind. It would be a travesty."

"Indeed," said Rob. "I'll get them." Twenty seconds later he was back. "I got shocked," he muttered. "There must be an electrical short down there; what should I do?"

I didn't answer. I just looked him straight in the eye and pumped my fist in the air a single time, as if to say, "You can do it, soldier!"

Rob nodded and said, "If I get electrocuted, I want you to give Sh.e.l.ly seven thousand dollars for a breast job. She's been driving me crazy about it since the day I met her!"

"Consider it done," I said righteously.

Three minutes later Rob was back with the Ludes. "G.o.d, that f.u.c.king hurt! I think I got third-degree burns on my feet!" Then he smiled and said, "But who's better than me, right?" that f.u.c.king hurt! I think I got third-degree burns on my feet!" Then he smiled and said, "But who's better than me, right?"

I smiled knowingly. "No one, Lorusso. You rule."

Five minutes later we were all up on the helicopter deck, and I was watching in horror as the basket swung back and forth a hundred feet in either direction. We were up there for a good thirty minutes-watching and waiting with sinking spirits-and then the sun dipped below the horizon.

Just then John came on deck, looking panic-stricken. "Everyone needs to come back downstairs," he ordered. "The helicopter ran out of fuel and had to go back. We're gonna have to abandon ship; we're about to sink."

I looked at him, astonished.

"Those are captain's orders," he added. "The life raft is inflated back by the stern, where the dive platform used to be. Let's go!" He motioned with his hand.

A rubber raft? I thought. In fifty-foot waves? Get the f.u.c.k out of here! Get the f.u.c.k out of here! It seemed like sheer lunacy. But it was captain's orders, so I followed dutifully, as did everyone else. We made our way to the stern, and the Bills were holding either end of a bright-orange rubber raft. The moment they placed it in the ocean it washed away. It seemed like sheer lunacy. But it was captain's orders, so I followed dutifully, as did everyone else. We made our way to the stern, and the Bills were holding either end of a bright-orange rubber raft. The moment they placed it in the ocean it washed away.

"Okay, then!" I said with an ironic smile. "I think the rubber-raft idea is a definite loser." I turned to the d.u.c.h.ess and extended my hand toward her. "Come on; let's go talk to Captain Marc."

I explained to Captain Marc what had happened with the raft. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it!" he sputtered. "I told those kids not to put the raft in the water without tying it up first.... s.h.i.t!" s.h.i.t!" He took a deep breath and regained his composure. "Okay," he said, "I want you two to listen to me: We're down to only one engine. If it goes, I won't be able to steer the boat anymore, and we're gonna get broadsided. I want you to stay up here. If the boat tips over, jump over the side and swim as far away as possible. There's gonna be a strong down current as the boat goes under, and it will try to suck you down with it. So just keep kicking for the surface. The water's warm enough to survive for as long as you have to. There's an Italian naval destroyer about fifty miles from here and it's on its way. They're gonna try another helicopter rescue with their Special Forces people. It's too rough for the Coast Guard." He took a deep breath and regained his composure. "Okay," he said, "I want you two to listen to me: We're down to only one engine. If it goes, I won't be able to steer the boat anymore, and we're gonna get broadsided. I want you to stay up here. If the boat tips over, jump over the side and swim as far away as possible. There's gonna be a strong down current as the boat goes under, and it will try to suck you down with it. So just keep kicking for the surface. The water's warm enough to survive for as long as you have to. There's an Italian naval destroyer about fifty miles from here and it's on its way. They're gonna try another helicopter rescue with their Special Forces people. It's too rough for the Coast Guard."

I nodded and said to Captain Marc, "Let me go downstairs and tell everyone."

"No," he ordered, "you two are staying here. We could go down any minute and I want you together." He turned to John. "Go downstairs and explain everything to the guests."

Two hours later the boat was barely afloat when a crackling came over the radio. Another helicopter was overhead, this one from the Italian Special Forces.

"All right," said Captain Marc with an insane smile on his face, "here's the deal: They're gonna lower down one of their commandos on a winch, but first we gotta push the helicopter over the side to make room for him."

"You're s.h.i.tting me!" I said, smiling.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" exclaimed the d.u.c.h.ess, putting her hand to her mouth.

"No," replied Captain Marc, "I s.h.i.t you not. Let me go get the video camera; this one needs to be saved for posterity."

John stayed at the controls while Captain Marc and I headed up to the flight deck with both Bills and Rob. Once there, Captain Marc handed the video camera to one of the Bills and quickly undid the helicopter's restraints. Then he pulled me in front of the helicopter and put his arm around my shoulder. "Okay," he said, smiling, "I want you to say a few words to the studio audience."

I looked into the video camera and said, "Hey! We're pushing our helicopter into the Mediterranean. Isn't this f.u.c.king great?"

Captain Marc added, "Yeah! It's a first time in yachting history! Leave it to the owner of the yacht Nadine Nadine!"

"Yeah," I added, "and if we should all die, I want everyone to know that it was my idea to make this ill-conceived crossing. I forced Captain Marc into it, so he should still be given a proper burial!"

That ended our broadcast. Captain Marc said, "Okay-wait until we get hit by a wave and the yacht starts tipping to the right; then we'll all do a heave-ho at once." And just as the yacht tipped to the right, we all pushed upward and the helicopter went flying over the side of the deck. We ran to the side and watched it sink below the surface in less than ten seconds.

Two minutes later there were seventeen of us on the flight deck, waiting to be rescued. Captain Marc and John remained on the bridge, trying to keep the yacht afloat. A hundred feet above us, a double-bladed Chinook helicopter was in a stationary hover. It was painted military-green, and it was absolutely enormous. Even from a hundred feet, the thumping of the two main rotors was deafening.

Suddenly a commando jumped out of the helicopter and began descending on a thick metal cord. He was dressed in full Special Forces regalia, wearing a black rubber wet suit with a tight-fitting hood. He had a backpack over his shoulders and what looked like a speargun dangling from one of his legs. He was swinging back and forth in a wild arc, a hundred feet in either direction. When he was thirty feet above the boat, he grabbed his speargun, aimed it, and then harpooned the boat. Ten seconds later the commando was on the deck-smiling broadly and giving us the thumbs-up sign. Apparently he was having a ball.

All eighteen of us were lifted to safety. Yet there was a bit of chaos with all this women-and-children-first business, when a panic-stricken Ross (the formerly brave outdoorsman) knocked over Ophelia and the two Bills, made a mad dash for the commando, and took a running jump at him-wrapping his arms and legs around him and refusing to let go until he was off the boat. But that was okay with Rob and me, because we now had fresh material with which to rip Ross to shreds for the rest of his natural life.

Captain Marc, however, would go down with the ship. In fact, the last thing I saw before the helicopter pulled away was the yacht's stern, as it dipped below the water for the last time, and the crown of Captain Marc's square head, bobbing up and down amid the waves.

The nice thing about getting rescued by Italians is that the first thing they do is feed you and make you drink red wine; then they make you dance. Yes, we partied like rock stars aboard an Italian naval destroyer with the very Italian Navy. They were a fun-loving bunch, and Rob and I took that as a signal to get Luded out of our minds. Captain Marc was safe, thank G.o.d, and had been plucked out of the water by the Coast Guard.

The last thing I remember was the captain of the destroyer and the d.u.c.h.ess carrying me to the infirmary. Before they put the covers over me, the captain explained how the Italian government was making a big deal over the rescue-a public-relations coup, so to speak-so he was authorized to take us anywhere in the Med; the choice was ours. He recommended the Cala di Volpe Hotel in Sardinia, which he said was one of the nicest in the world. I nodded eagerly and gave him the thumbs-up sign, and said, "Zake me zoo Zarzinia!"

I woke up in Sardinia, as the destroyer pulled into Porto Cervo. All eighteen of us stood on the main deck, watching in awe as hundreds of Sardinians waved at us. A dozen news crews, each with a video camera, were anxious to film the idiot Americans who'd been foolish enough to sail out into the middle of a Force 8 gale.

On our way off the destroyer, the d.u.c.h.ess and I thanked our Italian rescuers and exchanged phone numbers with them. We told them that if they were ever in the States, they should look us up. I offered them money-for their bravery and heroism-and every last one of them refused. They were an incredible bunch-first-cla.s.s heroes, in the truest sense of the word.

As we made our way through the throngs of Sardinians, it occurred to me that we'd lost all our clothes. For the d.u.c.h.ess, it was round two. But that was fine: I was about to receive a very large check from Lloyd's of London-which had insured the boat and helicopter. After we checked into the hotel, I took everyone shopping, guests and crew alike. All we could find was resort wear-exploding shades of pink and purple and yellow and red and gold and silver. We would be spending ten days in Sardinia looking like human peac.o.c.ks.

Ten days later, the Ludes were gone and it was time to go home. It was then that I came up with the terrific idea to box up all our clothes and have them shipped back to the States, avoiding Customs. The d.u.c.h.ess agreed.

The next morning, a little before six, I went down to the lobby to pay the hotel bill. It was $700,000. It wasn't as bad as it seemed, though, because the bill included a $300,000 gold bangle studded with rubies and emeralds. I'd bought it for the d.u.c.h.ess somewhere around the fifth day, after I'd fallen asleep in a chocolate souffle. It was the least I could do to make amends to my chief enabler.

At the airport, we waited two hours for my private jet. Then a tiny man who worked at the private-jet terminal walked up to me and said, in heavily accented English: "Mr. Belforte, Belforte, your plane crash. Seagull fly in engine, and plane go down in France. It will not come to get you." your plane crash. Seagull fly in engine, and plane go down in France. It will not come to get you."

I was speechless. Did things like this happen to anyone else? I didn't think so. When I informed the d.u.c.h.ess, she didn't say a word. She just shook her head and walked away.

I tried to call Janet-to make new flight arrangements-but the phones were impossible to use. I decided that our best bet was to fly to England, where we could understand what the f.u.c.k people were saying. Once we got to London, I knew everything would be fine-until we were sitting in the back of a black London taxi and I noticed something odd: The streets were insanely crowded. In fact, the closer we got to Hyde Park, the more crowded it became.

I said to the pasty-faced British cabbie, "Why is it so crowded? I've been to London dozens of times and I've never seen it like this."

"Well, governor," said the cabbie, "we're having our Woodstock celebration this weekend. There are over half a million people in Hyde Park. Eric Clapton's performing, the Who, Alanis Morissette, and some others as well. It's going to be a jolly good show, governor. I hope you have hotel reservations, because there's scarcely a room anywhere in London."

Hmmm... there were three things that now astonished me: The first was that this f.u.c.king cabbie kept addressing me as "governor" the second was that I happened to show up in London on the first weekend since World War II where there were no hotel rooms available in the entire city; and the third was that we all needed to go shopping for clothes again-which would be the d.u.c.h.ess's third time in less than two weeks. there were three things that now astonished me: The first was that this f.u.c.king cabbie kept addressing me as "governor" the second was that I happened to show up in London on the first weekend since World War II where there were no hotel rooms available in the entire city; and the third was that we all needed to go shopping for clothes again-which would be the d.u.c.h.ess's third time in less than two weeks.

Rob said to me, "I can't believe we gotta go buy clothes again. Are you still paying?"

I smiled and said, "Go f.u.c.k yourself, Rob."

In the lobby of the Dorchester Hotel, the concierge said, "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Belfort, but we're booked solid for the entire weekend. In fact, I don't believe there's a room available anywhere in London. Feel free, though, to bring your party into the bar area. It's teatime, you know, and it would be my pleasure to offer you complimentary tea and finger sandwiches for all your guests."

I rolled my neck, trying to maintain my composure. "Could you call some other hotels and see if there're any rooms available?"

"Of course," he replied. "It would be my pleasure."

Three hours later we were still in the bar, drinking tea and munching on crumpets, when the concierge walked in with a great smile and said, "There's been a cancellation at the Four Seasons. It happens to be the Presidential Suite, which is particularly well-suited to your tastes. The cost is eight-"

I cut him off. "I'll take it!"

"Very well," he said. "We have a Rolls-Royce waiting for you outside. From what I hear, the hotel has a very nice spa; perhaps a ma.s.sage ma.s.sage might be in order after all you've been through." might be in order after all you've been through."

I nodded in agreement, and two hours later I was lying faceup on a ma.s.sage table, in the Presidential Suite of the Four Seasons Hotel. The balcony looked out over Hyde Park, where the concert was now under way.

My guests were gallivanting around the streets of London, shopping for clothes; Janet was busy at work, arranging flights on the Concorde; and the luscious d.u.c.h.ess was in the shower, competing with Eric Clapton.

I loved my luscious d.u.c.h.ess. Once again she'd proven herself to me, and this time under intense pressure. She was a warrior-standing toe to toe with me, facing down death, keeping a smile on that gorgeous face of hers all the while.

It was for that very reason, in fact, why I was finding it so difficult to maintain my erection right now, as a six-foot-tall Ethiopian ma.s.seuse jerked me off. Of course, I knew it was wrong to be getting a hand job from a ma.s.seuse while my wife was singing in the shower, twenty feet away. Yet...was there really any difference between getting a hand job and jerking myself off with my own hand?

Hmmm...I held on to that comforting thought for the remainder of my hand job, and the next day I found myself back in Old Brookville, ready to resume Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional.

CHAPTER 35

THE STORM BEFORE THE STORM

April 1997

As impossible as it might seem, nine months after the sinking of the yacht, my life had sunk to even deeper levels of insanity. I had found a clever way-an altogether logical logical way, in fact-to take my self-destructive behavior to a new extreme, namely, by changing my drug of choice from Quaaludes to cocaine. Yes, it was time for a change, I'd figured, with my chief motivating factor being that I was fed up with drooling in public places and falling asleep in inappropriate settings. way, in fact-to take my self-destructive behavior to a new extreme, namely, by changing my drug of choice from Quaaludes to cocaine. Yes, it was time for a change, I'd figured, with my chief motivating factor being that I was fed up with drooling in public places and falling asleep in inappropriate settings.

So, rather than starting off my day with four Quaaludes and a tall gla.s.s of iced coffee, I woke up to a gram of Bolivian marching powder-always careful to split the dose equally, a half gram up each nostril, so as not to deprive either side of my brain of the instantaneous rush. It was the true true Breakfast of Champions. Then I'd round out my breakfast with three milligrams of Xanax, to quell the paranoia that was sure to follow. After that-and in spite of my back being completely pain-free now-I would take forty-five milligrams of morphine, simply because cocaine and narcotics were made for each other. Besides, since I still had a bunch of doctors prescribing me morphine, how bad could it be? Breakfast of Champions. Then I'd round out my breakfast with three milligrams of Xanax, to quell the paranoia that was sure to follow. After that-and in spite of my back being completely pain-free now-I would take forty-five milligrams of morphine, simply because cocaine and narcotics were made for each other. Besides, since I still had a bunch of doctors prescribing me morphine, how bad could it be?

Either way, an hour before lunchtime I would take my first dose of Quaaludes-four, to be exact-followed by another gram of c.o.ke, to ward off the uncontrollable tiredness that was sure to follow. Of course, I still managed to consume my daily dose of twenty Quaaludes, but at least now I was using them in a healthier way, a more productive way-to balance out the c.o.ke.

It was an inspired strategy, and it had worked perfectly, for a time. But like all things in life, there were a few b.u.mps along the way. In this particular instance, the main b.u.mp was that I was sleeping only three hours a week, and by mid-April I was in the midst of a cocaine-induced paranoia that was so deep I'd actually taken a few potshots at the milkman with a twelve-gauge shotgun.

With a bit of luck, I figured, the milkman would spread the word that the Wolf of Wall Street was not a man to be trifled with, that he was armed and ready-fully prepared to ward off any intruder foolish enough to come on his property-even if his bodyguards were sleeping on the job.

Whatever the case, it had been in mid-December, four months ago, when Stratton was finally shut down. Ironically, it wasn't the states who'd lowered the boom on Stratton but the b.u.mbling bozos at the NASD. They had revoked Stratton's membership-citing stock manipulation and sales-practice violations. In essence, Stratton had been shunned, and from a legal standpoint it was a deathblow. Membership in the NASD was a prerequisite for selling securities across state lines; without it, you might as well be out of business. So, reluctantly, Danny closed down Stratton, and the era of the Strattonite came to a close. It had been an eight-year run. Just how it would be remembered I wasn't quite sure, although I suspected the press wouldn't be kind to it.

Biltmore and Monroe Parker were still going strong and still paying me a million dollars per deal, although I considered it a distinct possibility that the owners, other than Alan Lipsky, were plotting against me. Just how and why, I wasn't quite certain, but such was the nature of plots-especially when the conspirators were your closest friends.

On a separate note, Steve Madden was was plotting against me. Our relationship had completely soured. According to Steve, it had to do with me showing up at the office stoned, to which I'd said to him, "Go f.u.c.k yourself, you self-righteous b.a.s.t.a.r.d! If it weren't for me you'd still be selling shoes out of the trunk of your car!" True or not, the simple fact was that the stock was trading at thirteen dollars and it was on its way to twenty. plotting against me. Our relationship had completely soured. According to Steve, it had to do with me showing up at the office stoned, to which I'd said to him, "Go f.u.c.k yourself, you self-righteous b.a.s.t.a.r.d! If it weren't for me you'd still be selling shoes out of the trunk of your car!" True or not, the simple fact was that the stock was trading at thirteen dollars and it was on its way to twenty.

We had eighteen stores now, and our department-store business was booked out two seasons in advance. I could only imagine what he was thinking about me-the man who had taken eighty-five percent of his company and controlled the price of his stock for almost four years. Yet now that Stratton was out of business, I no longer had control over his stock. The price of Steve Madden Shoes was being dictated by the laws of supply and demand-rising and falling with the fortunes of the company itself, not the fortunes of any particular brokerage firm that was recommending it. The Cobbler had had to be plotting against me. Yes, it was true: I had shown up at the office a bit stoned, and that was wrong, but, still, that was merely an excuse to force me out of the company and steal my stock options. And what was my recourse if he tried doing that? to be plotting against me. Yes, it was true: I had shown up at the office a bit stoned, and that was wrong, but, still, that was merely an excuse to force me out of the company and steal my stock options. And what was my recourse if he tried doing that?

Well, I had our secret agreement, but that covered only my original shares, 1.2 million of them; my stock options were in Steve's name, and I had nothing in writing. Would he try to steal them from me? Or would he try to steal everything-both my stock and my options? Perhaps that bald b.a.s.t.a.r.d had deluded himself, thinking I wouldn't have the b.a.l.l.s to expose our secret agreement, that by its very nature it would cause both of us too many problems if I made it public.

He was in for a rude awakening. The chances of him getting away with stealing my stock and options were less than zero-even if it meant both of us going to jail.

As a sober, lucid man, I would've still had these thoughts, but in my current mental state they smoldered in my mind in a most venomous way. Whether Steve was planning to f.u.c.k me or not was wholly immaterial; he would never get the chance. He was no different than Victor w.a.n.g, the Depraved f.u.c.king Chinaman. Yes, Victor had tried to f.u.c.k me too, and I'd sent him back to Chinatown.

It was now the second week of April, and I hadn't been to Steve Madden Shoes in over a month. It was Friday afternoon, and I was home in my study, sitting behind my mahogany desk. The d.u.c.h.ess was already in the Hamptons, and the kids were spending the weekend with her mother. I was alone with my thoughts, ready for war.

I dialed Wigwam at his house and said, "I want you to call Madden and tell him that as escrow agent, you're giving him notice that you plan on liquidating a hundred thousand shares immediately. It comes out to about $1.3 million, give or take a few bucks. Tell him that pursuant to the agreement he has the right to sell his shares too, in ratio with me, which means he can sell seventeen thousand of them. Whether he decides to or not is his f.u.c.king decision."

Wigwam the Weak replied, "To get it done quickly I need his signature. What if he balks?"

I took a deep breath, trying to control my anger. "If he gives you a hard time, tell him that pursuant to the escrow agreement you're gonna foreclose on the note and sell the stock privately. You tell him that I've already agreed to buy it. And you tell that bald motherf.u.c.ker that that'll give me a fifteen percent stake in the company, which means I'll have to file a 13D with the SEC, and then everyone on Wall Street's gonna know what a f.u.c.king c.o.c.k-sucker he is for trying to f.u.c.k me. You tell that motherf.u.c.ker that I'm gonna make the whole thing public and that every f.u.c.king week I'm gonna keep buying more stock in the open market, which means I'm gonna keep filing updated 13Ds. You tell that c.o.c.ksucker that I'm not gonna stop buying until I own fifty-one percent of his company, and then I'm gonna throw his bony a.s.s right the f.u.c.k out of there." I took another deep breath. My heart was beating out of my chest. "And you tell that motherf.u.c.ker if he thinks I'm bluffing, then he should climb inside a f.u.c.king bunker, because I'm about to unleash a nuclear bomb on his very f.u.c.king existence." I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a Ziploc bag with a pound of cocaine in it.

"I'll do whatever you say," replied Wigwam the Weak. "I just want you to think about it for a second. You're the smartest guy I know, but you sound a bit irrational right now. As your lawyer I strongly advise you against making this agreement pub-"

I cut my lawyer right the f.u.c.k off. "Let me f.u.c.king tell you something, Andy: You have no f.u.c.king idea how little of a s.h.i.t I give about the SE f.u.c.king C and the NAS f.u.c.king D." I opened the bag and grabbed a playing card off my desk, then dipped deep into the powder, scooping out enough cocaine to give a blue whale a heart attack. I dumped it onto the desktop. Then I bent over and stuck my face in it and started snorting. "And furthermore," I added, my face now covered in cocaine, "I couldn't give two s.h.i.ts about that Coleman motherf.u.c.ker either. He's been chasing my a.s.s around for four f.u.c.king years, and he still ain't got s.h.i.t on me." I shook my head a few times, to try to get hold of the rush that was rapidly overtaking me. "And there ain't no f.u.c.king way I'm getting indicted over that agreement. It would be too anticlimactic for Coleman. He's a man of honor, and he wants to get me on something real. That would be like getting Al Capone on tax evasion. So f.u.c.k Coleman where he breathes!"

"Understood," said Wigwam, "but I need a favor from you."

"What?"

"I'm running short of money," said my shyster lawyer, pausing for effect. "You know, Danny really f.u.c.ked things up for me by not c.o.c.kroaching it. I'm still waiting for my brokerage license to come through. Could you help me out in the interim?"

Unbelievable! I thought. My own f.u.c.king escrow agent was holding me up for money. That toupeed motherf.u.c.ker! That toupeed motherf.u.c.ker! I should kill him too! "How much you need?" I should kill him too! "How much you need?"

"I don't know," he replied weakly, "maybe a couple hundred thousand?"

"Fine!" I snapped. "I'll give you a quarter million, now go call f.u.c.king Madden right f.u.c.king now and call me back and let me know what he said." I slammed the phone down without saying good-bye. Then I bent over and stuck my face back in the c.o.ke.

Ten minutes later the phone rang. "What did the motherf.u.c.ker say?" I asked.