The Wolf Of Wall Street Part 5

Kenny Greene, my other partner, was a breed apart from Danny. In fact, no two people could be more different. Danny was the smarter of the two, and, as improbable as it might seem, he was definitely the more refined. But Kenny was more driven, blessed with an insatiable appet.i.te for knowledge and wisdom-two attributes he lacked entirely. Yes, Kenny was a dimwit. dimwit. It was sad but true. And he had an incredible talent for saying the most asinine things during business meetings, especially key ones, which I no longer allowed him to attend. It was a fact that Danny relished beyond belief, and seldom did he pa.s.s up an opportunity to remind me of Kenny's many shortfalls. So I had Kenny Greene and Andy Greene, no relation-I seemed to be surrounded by Greenes. It was sad but true. And he had an incredible talent for saying the most asinine things during business meetings, especially key ones, which I no longer allowed him to attend. It was a fact that Danny relished beyond belief, and seldom did he pa.s.s up an opportunity to remind me of Kenny's many shortfalls. So I had Kenny Greene and Andy Greene, no relation-I seemed to be surrounded by Greenes.

Just then the door swung open and the mighty roar came pouring in. It was a f.u.c.king greed storm out there, and I loved every last ounce of it. The mighty roar-yes, it was the most powerful drug of all. It was stronger than the wrath of my wife; it was stronger than my back pain; and it was stronger than those bozo regulators shivering in my conference room.

And it was even stronger than the insanity of my own father, who at this particular moment was getting ready to release a mighty roar of his own.

CHAPTER 7

SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF

In ominous tones, and with his brilliant blue eyes bulging so far out of his head that he looked like a cartoon character about to pop, Mad Max said, "If you three b.a.s.t.a.r.ds don't wipe those smug f.u.c.king looks off your faces, I swear to f.u.c.king G.o.d I'm gonna wipe them off for you!"

With that, he started pacing...slowly, deliberately...with his face contorted into a mask of unadulterated fury. In his right hand was a lit cigarette, probably his twentieth of the day; in his left hand was a white Styrofoam cup filled with Stolichnaya vodka, hopefully his first of the day but probably his second.

All at once he stopped pacing, and he turned on his heel like a prosecuting attorney and looked at Danny. "So what do you you have to say for yourself, Porush? You know, you're even more of a f.u.c.king r.e.t.a.r.d than I thought you were-eating a goldfish in the middle of the boardroom! What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you?" have to say for yourself, Porush? You know, you're even more of a f.u.c.king r.e.t.a.r.d than I thought you were-eating a goldfish in the middle of the boardroom! What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you?"

Danny stood up and smiled, and said, "Come on, Max! It wasn't as bad as it seems. The kid deserved-"

"Sit down and shut up, Porush! You're a f.u.c.king disgrace, not just to yourself but to your whole f.u.c.king family, may G.o.d save them!" Mad Max paused for a brief instant, then added, "And stop smiling, G.o.d d.a.m.n it! Those boiling teeth of yours are hurting my eyes! I need a pair of sungla.s.ses to shield myself, for Chrissake!"

Danny sat down and closed his mouth nice and tight. We exchanged glances, and I found myself fighting a morbid urge to smile. But I resisted it-knowing it would only make matters worse. I glanced over at Kenny. He was sitting across from me, in the same chair Wigwam had sat in, but I failed to make eye contact with him. He was too busy staring at his own shoes, which, as usual, were in desperate need of a shine. In typical Wall Street fashion, he had his shirtsleeves rolled up, exposing a thick gold Rolex. It was the Presidential model-my old watch, in fact, the one the d.u.c.h.ess had made me discard because of its gaucheness. Nevertheless, Kenny didn't look gauche or, for that matter, sharp. And that new military-style haircut of his made his blockhead look that much blockier. My junior partner, I thought: the Blockhead.

Meanwhile, a poisonous silence now filled the room, which meant it was time for me to put an end to this very madness, once and for all. So I leaned forward in my chair and dug deep into my fabulous vocabulary-extracting the sort of words I knew my father would respect most-and I said in a commanding voice, "All right, Dad, enough of this s.h.i.t! Why don't you calm the f.u.c.k down for a second! This is my f.u.c.king company, and if I have legitimate f.u.c.king business expenses, then I'm-"

But Mad Max cut me off before I could make my point. "You want me to calm down while you three r.e.t.a.r.ds act like kids in a candy store? You don't think there's any end in sight, do you? It's all one giant f.u.c.king party to you three schmendricks; no rainy days on the horizon, right? Well, I'll f.u.c.king tell you something-all this c.o.c.k-and-bull horses.h.i.t of yours, the way you charge your personal expenses to this f.u.c.king company-I'm sick and tired of it!"

Then he paused and stared the three of us down-starting with me, his own son. At this particular moment he had to be wondering whether or not I was actually delivered by a stork. As he turned away from me I happened to catch a terrific look at him from just the right angle, and I found myself marveling at how dapper he looked today! Oh, yes, in spite of it all, Mad Max was very snazzy-favoring navy-blue blazers, spread British collars, solid navy neckties, and tan gabardine trousers, all custom-made and all starched and pressed to near perfection by the same Chinese laundry service he'd used for the last thirty years. He was a creature of habit, my father.

So there we sat, like good little schoolchildren, waiting patiently for his next verbal a.s.sault, which I knew wouldn't come until he did one thing first: smoked. Finally, after a good ten seconds, he took an enormous pull from his Merit Ultra low-tar cigarette and expanded his mighty chest to twice its normal size, like a puffer fish trying to ward off a predator. Then he slowly exhaled and deflated himself back to normal size. His shoulders were still enormous, though, and his forward-leaning posture and thin layer of salt-and-pepper hair gave him the appearance of a five-foot-six-inch raging bull.

Then he tilted his head back and took an enormous pull from his Styrofoam cup and downed its fiery contents, as if it were no stronger than chilled Evian. He started shaking his head. "All this money being made and you three imbeciles blowing it like there's no tomorrow. It's a f.u.c.king travesty to watch. What do you three think, that I'm some sort of yes-man who's just gonna roll over and play dead while you guys destroy this f.u.c.king company? Do you three have any idea of how many people count on this place for their f.u.c.king livelihood? Do you have any idea of the risk and exposure that..."

Mad Max went on and on in typical Mad Max fashion, but I tuned out. In fact, I found myself mesmerized by this wonderful ability he had to tie so many curses together with such little forethought and still make each sentence sound so very f.u.c.king poetic. It was truly beautiful the way he cursed-like Shakespeare with an att.i.tude! And at Stratton Oakmont, where cursing was considered a high art form, to say that someone knew how to tie their curses together was a compliment of the highest order. But Mad Max took things to an entirely different level, and when he really got himself on a roll, like now, it gave his verbal tirades an almost pleasant ring to the ear.

Now Mad Max was shaking his head in disgust-or was it incredulity? Well, it was probably a bit of both. Whatever it was, he was shaking his head and explaining to us three r.e.t.a.r.ded schmendricks that November's American Express bill was $470,000, and only $20,000 of it, by his calculations, were legitimate business expenses; the rest were of a personal nature, or personal bulls.h.i.t, as he put it. Then, in a most ominous tone, he said, "Let me tell you something right now-you three maniacs are gonna get your t.i.ts caught right in a wringer! You mark my f.u.c.king words-sooner or later those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds from the IRS are gonna come marching down here and do a complete f.u.c.king audit, and you three r.e.t.a.r.ds are gonna be in deep s.h.i.t unless someone puts a stop to all this madness. That's why I'm hitting each of you personally for this bill." He nodded in agreement with his own statement. "I'm not running it through the business-not one f.u.c.king penny of it-and that's f.u.c.king final! I'm taking four hundred fifty thousand right out of your inflated f.u.c.king paychecks, and don't even try to stop me!"

Why-the f.u.c.king nerve! I had to say something to him in his own language. "Hold your f.u.c.king horses right there, Dad! That's a complete load of c.r.a.p, what you're saying! A lot of that s.h.i.t is legitimate business expenses, whether you believe it or not. If you just stop f.u.c.king screaming for a second I'll tell you what's what and-" I had to say something to him in his own language. "Hold your f.u.c.king horses right there, Dad! That's a complete load of c.r.a.p, what you're saying! A lot of that s.h.i.t is legitimate business expenses, whether you believe it or not. If you just stop f.u.c.king screaming for a second I'll tell you what's what and-"

But again he cut me right off, now turning his attack directly toward me: "And you, the so-called Wolf of Wall Street-the demented young Wolf. My own son! From my very f.u.c.king loins! How could it be? You're the worst of the lot! Why the h.e.l.l would you go out and buy two of the same fur coat, for eighty thousand dollars apiece? That's right-I called that place, Allessandro's House of f.u.c.king Furs, because I thought it must be some sort of a mistake! But, no-you know what that Greek b.a.s.t.a.r.d down there told me?"

I humored him with a response: "No, Dad, what did he f.u.c.king tell you?"

"He told me you bought two of the same mink coat-the same color and style and everything!" With that, Mad Max c.o.c.ked his head to one side and tucked his chin between his collarbones. He looked up at me with those bulging blue eyes of his, and he said, "What, one coat's not enough for your wife? Or wait-let me guess-you bought the second mink for a prost.i.tute, right?" He paused and took another deep pull from his cigarette. "I've had it up to here with all this c.o.c.kamamie bulls.h.i.t. You don't think I know what EJ Entertainment is?" He narrowed his eyes accusingly. "You three maniacs are charging hookers to the corporate credit card! What kind of hookers take credit cards, anyway?"

The three of us exchanged glances but said nothing. After all, what was there to say? The truth was that hookers did did take credit cards-or at least ours did! In fact, hookers were so much a part of the Stratton subculture that we cla.s.sified them like publicly traded stocks: Blue Chips were considered the top-of-the-line hooker, take credit cards-or at least ours did! In fact, hookers were so much a part of the Stratton subculture that we cla.s.sified them like publicly traded stocks: Blue Chips were considered the top-of-the-line hooker, zee zee creme de la creme. They were usually struggling young models or exceptionally beautiful college girls in desperate need of tuition or designer clothing, and for a few thousand dollars they would do almost anything imaginable, either to you or to each other. Next came the NASDAQs, who were one step down from the Blue Chips. They were priced between three and five hundred dollars and made you wear a condom unless you gave them a hefty tip, which I always did. Then came the Pink Sheet hookers, who were the lowest form of all, usually a streetwalker or the sort of low-cla.s.s hooker who showed up in response to a desperate late-night phone call to a number in creme de la creme. They were usually struggling young models or exceptionally beautiful college girls in desperate need of tuition or designer clothing, and for a few thousand dollars they would do almost anything imaginable, either to you or to each other. Next came the NASDAQs, who were one step down from the Blue Chips. They were priced between three and five hundred dollars and made you wear a condom unless you gave them a hefty tip, which I always did. Then came the Pink Sheet hookers, who were the lowest form of all, usually a streetwalker or the sort of low-cla.s.s hooker who showed up in response to a desperate late-night phone call to a number in Screw Screw magazine or the yellow pages. They usually cost a hundred dollars or less, and if you didn't wear a condom, you'd get a penicillin shot the next day and then pray that your d.i.c.k didn't fall off. magazine or the yellow pages. They usually cost a hundred dollars or less, and if you didn't wear a condom, you'd get a penicillin shot the next day and then pray that your d.i.c.k didn't fall off.

Anyway, the Blue Chips took credit cards, so what was wrong with writing them off on your taxes? After all, the IRS knew about this sort of stuff, didn't they? In fact, back in the good old days, when getting blasted over lunch was considered normal corporate behavior, the IRS referred to these types of expenses as three-martini lunches! They even had an accounting term for it: It was called T and E, T and E, which stood for Travel and Entertainment. All I'd done was taken the small liberty of moving things to their logical conclusion, changing which stood for Travel and Entertainment. All I'd done was taken the small liberty of moving things to their logical conclusion, changing T and E T and E to to T and A: T and A: t.i.ts and a.s.s! t.i.ts and a.s.s!

That aside, the problems with my father ran much deeper than a few questionable charges on the corporate credit card. The simple fact was that he was the tightest man to ever walk the face of the planet. And I-well, let's just say that I had a fundamental disagreement with him on the management of money, insofar as I thought nothing of losing half a million dollars at the c.r.a.ps table and then throwing a $5,000 gray poker chip at a luscious Blue Chip.

Anyway, the long and short of it was that at Stratton Oakmont, Mad Max was like a fish out of water-or more like a fish on Pluto. He was sixty-five years old, which made him a good forty years older than the average Strattonite; he was a highly educated man, a CPA, who had an IQ somewhere in the stratosphere, while the average Strattonite had no education whatsoever and was about as smart as a box of rocks. He had grown up in a different time and place, in the old Jewish Bronx, amid the smoldering economic ashes of the Great Depression, not knowing if there would be food on the dinner table. And like millions of others who had grown up in the thirties, he still suffered from a Depression-era mentality-making him risk-averse, resistant to change in any shape or form, and riddled with financial doubt. And here he was, trying to manage the finances of a company whose sole business was based on moment-to-moment change and whose majority owner, who happened to be his own son, was a born risk-taker.

I took a deep breath, rose from my chair, and walked around the front of my desk and sat on the edge. Then I crossed my arms beneath my chest in a gesture of frustration, and I said, "Listen, Dad-there are certain things that go on here that I don't expect you to understand. But the simple fact is that it's my f.u.c.king money to do whatever the f.u.c.k I want with. In fact, unless you can make a case that my spending is impinging on cash flow, then I would just suggest you bite your f.u.c.king tongue and pay the bill.

"Now, you know I love you, and it hurts me to see you get so upset over a stupid credit-card bill. But that's all it is, Dad: a bill! And you know you're gonna end up paying it anyway. So what's the point of getting all upset over it? Before the day is over we're gonna make twenty million bucks, so who gives a s.h.i.t about half a million?"

At this point the Blockhead chimed in. "Max, my portion of the bill is hardly anything. So I'm on the same page as you."

I smiled inwardly, knowing the Blockhead had just made a colossal blunder. There were two rules of thumb when dealing with Mad Max: First, never try pa.s.sing the buck-ever! Second, never point the finger, subtly or otherwise, at his beloved son, who only he had the right to berate. He turned to Kenny and said, "In my mind, Greene, every dollar you spend above zero is one too many dollars, you f.u.c.king twerp! At least my son is the one who makes all the money around here! What the f.u.c.k do you do, besides getting us tangled up in a s.e.xual-hara.s.sment lawsuit with that big-t.i.tted sales a.s.sistant-whatever the f.u.c.k her name was." He shook his head in disgust. "So why don't you just shut the f.u.c.k up and count your lucky stars that my son was kind enough to make a twerp like you a partner in this place."

I smiled at my father and said jokingly, "Dad-Dad-Dad! Now, calm down before you give yourself a f.u.c.king heart attack. I know what you're thinking, but Kenny wasn't trying to insinuate anything. You know all of us love you and respect you and rely on you to be the voice of reason around here. So let's all just take a step back..."

For as long as I could remember, my father had been fighting a one-sided ground war against himself-consisting of daily battles against unseen enemies and inanimate objects. I first noticed it when I was five, with his car, which he seemed to think was alive. It was a 1963 green Dodge Dart, and he referred to it as she. she. The problem was that The problem was that she she had a terrible rattle coming from beneath her dashboard. It was an elusive son of a b.i.t.c.h, this rattle, which he was certain those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds from the Dodge factory had purposely placed in had a terrible rattle coming from beneath her dashboard. It was an elusive son of a b.i.t.c.h, this rattle, which he was certain those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds from the Dodge factory had purposely placed in her, her, as a means of personally f.u.c.king him over. It was a rattle that no one else could hear, except my mother-who only pretended to hear it, to keep my father from blowing an emotional gasket. as a means of personally f.u.c.king him over. It was a rattle that no one else could hear, except my mother-who only pretended to hear it, to keep my father from blowing an emotional gasket.

But that was only the start of it. Even a simple trip to the refrigerator could be a dicey affair, what with his habit of drinking milk directly from the container. The problem there was if even one drop of milk dripped down his chin, he would go absolutely ballistic-slamming down the milk container and muttering, "That G.o.dd.a.m.n piece-a-s.h.i.t motherf.u.c.king milk container! Can't those stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who design milk containers come up with one that doesn't make the f.u.c.king milk drip down your G.o.dforsaken chin?"

Of course. It was the milk container's fault! So Mad Max shrouded himself in a series of bizarre routines and steadfast rituals as protection against a cruel, unpredictable world filled with rattling dashboards and imperfect milk containers. He'd wake up each morning to three Kent cigarettes, a thirty-minute shower, and then an inordinately long shave with a straightedge razor, while one cigarette burned in his mouth and another burned over the sink. Next he would get dressed, first putting on a pair of white boxer shorts, then a pair of black knee-high socks, then a pair of black patent-leather shoes-but not his pants. Then he would walk around the apartment like that. He would eat breakfast, smoke a few more cigarettes, and excuse himself to take a world-cla.s.s dump. After that he would coif his hair to near-perfection, put on a dress shirt, b.u.t.ton it slowly, turn up his collar, wriggle on his tie, knot it, turn down his collar, and put on his suit jacket. Finally, just before he left the house, he'd put his pants on. Just why he saved this step for the end I could never figure out, but seeing it all those years must've scarred me in some undetermined way.

Odder still, though, was Mad Max's complete and utter aversion to the unexpected ringing of the telephone. Oh, yes, Mad Max hated the sound of a ringing phone, which seemed unusually cruel-considering he worked in an office that had one thousand tightly packed telephones, give or take a few. And they rang incessantly, from the moment Mad Max entered the office at precisely nine a.m. (he was never late, of course) to the moment he left, which was whenever the f.u.c.k he d.a.m.n well pleased.

Not surprisingly, growing up in that tiny two-bedroom apartment in Queens got pretty wild sometimes, especially when the phone started ringing, and especially when it was for him. Yet he never actually answered the phone himself, even if he so desired, because my mother, Saint Leah, would morph into a world-cla.s.s track star the moment it started ringing-making a mad dash for it, knowing that each ring she stymied would make it that much easier to calm him down after the fact.

And on those sad occasions when my mother was forced to utter those terrible words, "Max, it's for you," my father would slowly rise out of his living-room chair, wearing a pair of white boxer shorts and nothing else, and stomp his way to the kitchen, muttering, "That motherf.u.c.king c.o.c.ksucking piece-of-f.u.c.king-s.h.i.t phone! Who-the-f.u.c.king-h.e.l.l-has-the-G.o.dd.a.m.n-f.u.c.king-nerve-to-call-the-motherf.u.c.king-house-on-a-piece-of-s.h.i.t-f.u.c.king-Sunday-after-f.u.c.king-noon..."

But when he finally reached the telephone, the most bizarre thing would happen: He would magically transform himself into his alter ego, Sir Max, who was a refined gentleman with impeccable manners and an accent reeking of British aristocracy. It was rather odd, I'd thought, considering my father was born and raised on the grimy streets of the South Bronx and had never been to England.

Nevertheless, Sir Max would say into the telephone, "h.e.l.lo? How may I help you?" And he would keep his lips puckered and his cheeks slightly compressed, which really brought out that aristocratic accent of his. "Oh, okay, then; that will be quite fine! Righty-o, then!" With that, Sir Max would hang up the phone and revert back to Mad Max. "That-motherf.u.c.king-c.o.c.ksucking-piece-of-f.u.c.king-s.h.i.t-friend-of-f.u.c.king-mine-who-has-the-motherf.u.c.king-G.o.dd.a.m.n-gall-to-call-this-motherf.u.c.king-house..."

Yet with all the insanity, it was Mad Max who was the smiling coach of all my Little League teams, and it was Mad Max who was the first father to wake up on Sunday mornings and go downstairs and throw a ball around with his kids. He was the one who held the back of my bicycle seat and pushed me down the cement walk in front of our apartment building and then ran behind me, and he was the one who came into my bedroom at night and lay with me-running his fingers through my hair as I suffered with night terrors. He was the one who never missed a school play or a parentteacher conference or music recital or anything else, for that matter, where he could relish his children and show us that we were loved.

He was a complicated man, my father; a man of great mental capacity who was driven to succeed yet humbled into mediocrity by his own emotional limitations. After all, how could a man like this function in the corporate world? Would such behavior be tolerated? How many jobs had he lost because of it? How many promotions had pa.s.sed him by? And how many windows of opportunity had been slammed shut as a result of the Mad Max persona?

But all that changed with Stratton Oakmont, a place where Mad Max could unleash his fiery wrath with complete impunity. In fact, what better way for a Strattonite to prove his loyalty than to get berated by Mad Max and suck it up for the greater good, meaning: to live the Life. So a baseball bat to your car window or a public tongue-lashing was considered a rite of pa.s.sage for a young Strattonite, to be worn like a badge of honor.

So there was Mad Max and Sir Max, and the idea was to figure out a way to bring out Sir Max. My first trial balloon was the one-on-one approach. I looked at Kenny and Danny and said, "Why don't you guys give me a few minutes to talk to my father alone, okay?"

No arguments there! The two of them left with such alacrity that my father and I had barely made it to the couch, only ten feet away, when the door slammed shut behind them. My father sat down and lit up another cigarette and took one of his enormous pulls. I plopped myself down to his right, leaned back, and put my feet up on a gla.s.s coffee table in front of us.

I smiled sadly and said, "I swear to G.o.d, Dad, my back is f.u.c.king killing me. You have no idea. The pain's going right down the back of my left leg. It's enough to drive a person insane."

My father's face immediately softened. Apparently, trial balloon number one was off to a flying start. "Well, what do the doctors say?"

Hmmmmm...I hadn't detected any hint of a British accent in those last few words; nonetheless, my back really was killing me and I was definitely making progress with him. "Doctors? What the f.u.c.k do they know? The last surgery made it even worse. And all they do is give me pills that upset my stomach and don't do s.h.i.t for the pain." I shook my head some more. "Whatever, Dad. I don't wanna worry you. I'm just venting." I took my feet off the coffee table, leaned back, and spread my arms out on either side of the couch. "Listen," I said softly, "I know it's hard for you to make sense of all this craziness around here, but trust me, there's a method to my madness, especially when it comes to the spending. It's important to keep these guys chasing the dream. And it's even more important to keep them broke." I gestured over to the plate gla.s.s. "Look at them; as much money as they make, every last one of them is broke! They spend every dime they have, trying to keep up with my lifestyle. But they can't, because they don't make enough. So they end up living paycheck to paycheck on a million bucks a year. It's hard to imagine, considering how you grew up, but, nevertheless, it is what it is.

"Anyway, keeping them broke makes them easier to control. Think about it: Virtually every last one of them is leveraged to the hilt, with cars and homes and boats and all the rest of that c.r.a.p, and if they miss even one paycheck they're up s.h.i.t's creek. It's like having golden handcuffs on them. I mean, the truth is I could afford to pay them more than I do. But then they wouldn't need me as much. But if I paid them too little, then they would hate me. So I pay them just enough so they love me but still need me. And as long as they need me they'll always fear me."

My father was staring at me intently, hanging on every word. "One day"-I gestured with my chin toward the plate gla.s.s-"all that will be gone, and so will all that so-called loyalty. And when that day comes, I don't want you to have any knowledge of some of the things that went on here. That's why I'm evasive with you sometimes. It's not that I don't trust you or that I don't respect you-or that I don't value your opinion. It's the opposite, Dad. I keep things from you because I love you, and because I admire you, and because I want to protect you from the fallout when all this starts to unwind."

Sir Max, in a concerned tone: "Why are you talking like this? Why does all this have to unwind? The companies you're taking public are all legitimate, aren't they?"

"Yes. It has nothing to do with the companies. And the truth is, we're not doing anything different than anybody else out there. We're just doing it bigger and better, which makes us a target. Anyway, don't worry about it. I'm just having a morbid moment. Everything will work out fine, Dad."

Just then Janet's voice came through the intercom: "I'm sorry for interrupting, but you have a conference call with Ike Sorkin and the rest of the lawyers. They're on the line right now and they have their billing clocks ticking. Do you want them to hold or should I reschedule it?"

Conference call? I didn't have any conference call! And then it hit me: Janet was bailing me out! I looked at my father and shrugged, as if to say, "What can I do? I gotta take this call."

We quickly exchanged hugs and apologies, and then I made a pledge to try to spend less in the future, which both of us knew was complete bulls.h.i.t. Nevertheless, my father had come in like a lion and gone out like a lamb. And just as the door closed behind him, I made a mental note to give Janet a little something extra for Christmas, in spite of all the c.r.a.p she'd given me this morning. She was a good egg-a d.a.m.n good egg.

CHAPTER 8

THE COBBLER

About an hour later, Steve Madden was making his way to the front of the boardroom with a confident gait. It was the sort of gait, I thought, of a man in complete control, a man who had every intention of giving a first-cla.s.s dog-and-pony show. But when he reached the front of the boardroom-that look on his face! Sheer terror!

And the way he was dressed! It was ridiculous. He looked like a broken-down driving-range pro who'd traded in his golf clubs for two pints of malt liquor and a one-way ticket to Skid Row. It was ironic that Steve's business was fashion, considering he was one of the least fashionable dressers on the planet. He was the wacky-designer type, an over-the-top artsy-fartsy guy, who walked around town holding a horrendous-looking platform shoe in his hand as he offered unsolicited explanations as to why this shoe would be what every teenage girl would be dying to wear next season. It was ridiculous. He looked like a broken-down driving-range pro who'd traded in his golf clubs for two pints of malt liquor and a one-way ticket to Skid Row. It was ironic that Steve's business was fashion, considering he was one of the least fashionable dressers on the planet. He was the wacky-designer type, an over-the-top artsy-fartsy guy, who walked around town holding a horrendous-looking platform shoe in his hand as he offered unsolicited explanations as to why this shoe would be what every teenage girl would be dying to wear next season.

At this particular moment he was wearing a wrinkled navy blazer, which hung on his thin frame like a piece of cheap boat canvas. The rest of his ensemble was no better. He wore a ripped gray T-shirt and white peg-legged Levi's jeans, both of which had stains on them.

But it was his shoes that were the greatest insult. After all, one would think that anyone who was trying to pa.s.s himself off as a legitimate shoe designer would have the common decency to get a f.u.c.king shine the day he was going public. But, no, not Steve Madden; he had on a pair of cheap brown leather penny loafers that hadn't seen a high-shine rag since the day the calf was slaughtered. And, of course, his trademark royal-blue baseball cap covered his few remaining strands of wispy strawberry-blond hair, which, in typical downtown fashion, had been pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a rubber band.

Steve reluctantly grabbed the microphone off a maple-colored lectern and said a couple of quick uhh-humms uhh-humms and and uhh-hoos, uhh-hoos, sending a clear signal that he was ready to start the show. Slowly-very slowly, in fact-the Strattonites hung up their phones and leaned back in their chairs. sending a clear signal that he was ready to start the show. Slowly-very slowly, in fact-the Strattonites hung up their phones and leaned back in their chairs.

All at once I felt some terrific vibrations coming from my left-almost a mini-earthquake. I turned to see...Christ, it was fat Howie Gelfand! Four hundred pounds if he was an ounce! Four hundred pounds if he was an ounce!

"Hey, JB," said fat Howie. "I need you to do me real solid and flip me an extra ten thousand units of Madden. Could you do that for your uncle Howie?" He smiled from ear to ear, and then c.o.c.ked his head to the side and put his arm around my shoulder, as if to say, "Come on, we're buddies, right?"

Well, I kind of liked fat Howie despite the fact that he was a fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d. But that aside, his request for additional units was par for the course. After all, a unit of a Stratton new issue was more valuable than gold. All you had to do was some simple math: A unit consisted of one share of common stock and two warrants, an A and a B, each of which gave you the right to buy one additional share of stock at a price slightly above the initial offering price. In this particular instance, the initial offering price was four dollars a share; the A warrant was exercisable at four-fifty and the B warrant at five dollars. And as the price of the stock rose, the value of the warrants rose right along with it. So the leverage was staggering.

A typical Stratton new issue consisted of two million units offered at four dollars per, which by itself wasn't all that spectacular. But with a football field full of young Strattonites-smiling and dialing and ripping people's eyeb.a.l.l.s out-demand dramatically outstripped supply. In consequence, the price of the units would soar to twenty dollars or more the moment they started trading. So, to give a client a block of 10,000 units was like giving him a six-figure gift. There was no difference, which was why the client was expected to play ball-meaning: For every unit he was given at the initial-public-offering price, he was expected to purchase ten times as many ten times as many after the deal began trading publicly (in the aftermarket). after the deal began trading publicly (in the aftermarket).

"All right," I muttered. "You can have your extra ten thousand units because I love you and I know you're loyal. Now go lose some weight before you have a heart attack."

With a great smile and a hearty tone: "I hail you, JB. I hail you!" He did his best to take a bow. "You are the King...the Wolf...you're everything! Your wish is my-"

I cut him off. "Get the f.u.c.k out of here, Gelfand. And make sure none of the kids in your section start booing Madden or throwing s.h.i.t at him. I'm serious, okay?"

Howie began taking small steps backward and bowing toward me with his arms extended in front of him, the way a person does when they're leaving a royal chamber after an audience with a king.

What a fat f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I thought. But such a wonderful salesman! Smooth as silk he was. Howie had been one of my first employees-only nineteen when he came to work for me. His first year in the business he'd made $250,000. This year he was on pace to make $1.5 million. Nevertheless, he still lived at home with his parents.

Just then came more rumblings from the microphone: "Uh...excuse me, everyone. For those of you who don't know me, my name is Steve Madden. I'm the president-"

Before he could even finish his first thought, the Strattonites were on him: "We all know who you are!"

"Nice f.u.c.king baseball cap!"

"Time is money! Get to the f.u.c.king point!"

Then came some boos and hisses and whistles and catcalls and a couple a hoo hoo-yaaas. Then the room began to quiet down again.

Steve glanced over at me. His mouth was slightly parted and his brown eyes were as wide as saucers. I extended my arms, palms toward him, and moved them up and down a few times, as if to say, "Calm down and take it easy!"

Steve nodded and took a deep breath. "I'd like to start by telling you a little bit about myself and my background in the shoe industry. And then, after that, I'd like to discuss the bright plans I have for my company's future. I first started working in a shoe store when I was sixteen years old, sweeping the stockroom floor. And while all my other friends were out running around town chasing girls, I was learning about women's shoes. I was like Al Bundy, with a shoehorn sticking out my back-"

Another interruption: "The microphone's too far from your mouth. We can't hear a f.u.c.king word you're saying! Move the mike closer."

Steve moved the microphone. "Well, sorry about that. Uh-like I was saying, I've been in the shoe industry for as far back as I can remember. My first job was at a little shoe store in Cedarhurst called Jildor Shoes, where I worked in the stockroom. Then I became a salesman. And it was...uh...then...back when I was still a kid...that I first fell in love with women's shoes. You know, I can honestly say..."

And just like that he began giving a remarkably detailed explanation of how he'd been a true lover of women's shoes since he was in his early teens, and how somewhere along the way-he wasn't sure where-he had become fascinated with the endless design possibilities for women's shoes, insofar as the different types of heels and straps and flaps and buckles, and all the different sorts of fabrics he could work with, and all the decorative ornaments he could stick on them. Then he began explaining how he liked to caress the shoes and run his fingers along the insteps.

At this point I snuck a glance into the heart of the boardroom. What I saw were some very puzzled looks on the faces of the Strattonites. Even the sales a.s.sistants, who could usually be counted on to maintain some sense of decorum, were c.o.c.king their heads in disbelief. Some of them were rolling their eyes.

Then, all at once, they attacked: "What a f.u.c.king h.o.m.o!"

"That's some sick s.h.i.t, man!"

"You queer! Get a f.u.c.king life!"

Then came more boos and hisses and whistles and catcalls, and now some foot-stomping-a clear sign they were entering phase two of the torture treatment.

Danny walked over, shaking his head. "I'm f.u.c.king embarra.s.sed," he muttered.

I nodded. "Well, at least he agreed to put our stock in escrow. It's a shame we couldn't get the papers drawn up today, but it ain't a perfect world. Anyway, he's gotta stop with this s.h.i.t or they're gonna eat him up alive." I shook my head. "I don't know, though...I just went over this s.h.i.t with him a few minutes ago and he seemed okay. He's actually got a good company. He needs to just tell the story. I mean, he's your friend and everything, but he's a f.u.c.king crackpot!"

Danny, tonelessly: "Always has been, even in public school."

I shrugged. "Whatever. I'll give it another minute or so and then I'll go up there."

Just then Steve looked over at us, and the sweat was pouring pouring off him. He had a dark circle on his chest the size of a sweet potato. I waved my hand in small circles, as if to say, "Speed it up!" Then I mouthed the words: "Talk about your plans for the company!" off him. He had a dark circle on his chest the size of a sweet potato. I waved my hand in small circles, as if to say, "Speed it up!" Then I mouthed the words: "Talk about your plans for the company!"