The Wolf of Wall Street (29 page)

Then he turned to me and said, “And why did you fashion this buyout agreement as a noncompete? How can you compete if you’re already barred?” He took another pull from his cigarette. “It’s you and that bastard Gaito who cooked up this crooked scheme. It’s a fucking travesty, and I refuse to be a part of it.” With that, Mad Max headed for the door.

“Two things, Dad, before you go,” I said, holding up my hand.

With a hiss: “What?”

“First, the firm’s lawyers all approved the agreement. And the only reason it’s a hundred eighty million is because the noncompete has to be written off over fifteen years so we don’t lose the full tax benefit. Stratton’s paying me a million dollars a month, so fifteen years at a million a month is one hundred eighty million dollars.”

“Spare me the quick math,” he snapped. “I’m unimpressed. And as far as the tax code goes, I’m well aware of it, as well as your and Gaito’s blatant disregard for it. So don’t try snowing me, Mister Man. Anything else?”

Casually, I added, “We need to move tonight’s dinner to six o’clock. Nadine wants to bring Chandler along so you and Mom can see her.” I crossed my fingers and waited for the name
Chandler
to work its happy magic on Mad Max, whose face immediately began to soften at the mention of his only grandchild.

With a great smile and a slight British accent, Sir Max said, “Ohhh, what a wonderful surprise! Your mother will be thrilled to see Chandler. Well, righty-o, then! I’ll call Mom and tell her the good news.” Sir Max exited the office with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.

I looked at Danny and Wigwam and shrugged. “There are certain key words that calm him down, and
Chandler
’s the most surefire of all. Anyway, you gotta learn them if you don’t want him to have a heart attack right in the office.”

“Your father’s a good man,” said Danny, “and nothing’s gonna change for him around here. I look at him like my own father, and he can say and do whatever he wants until he’s ready to retire.”

I smiled, appreciative of Danny’s loyalty.

“But more important than your father,” he continued, “I’m already having problems with Duke Securities. In spite of Victor being in business for only three days, he’s already spreading rumors that Stratton’s on the way out and that Duke is the next great thing. He hasn’t tried stealing any brokers yet, but that’s coming next, I’m sure. That fat fuck is too lazy to train his own brokers.”

I looked at Wigwam. “What do you have to say about all this?”

“I don’t think Victor’s much of a threat,” replied Wigwam. “Duke is small; they have nothing to offer anyone. They don’t have any deals of their own or any capital to speak of, and they don’t have a track record. I think Victor just has a big mouth he can’t control.”

I smiled at Wigwam, who had just confirmed what I already knew—that he was not a wartime consigliere and would be of little help to Danny in matters like these. In warm tones, I said, “You’re mistaken, buddy. You got the whole thing backward. See, if Victor’s smart, he’ll realize he has everything to offer his new recruits. His greatest power is actually in his size—or lack of size, I should say. The truth is that at Stratton it’s difficult for the cream to rise to the top; there’re so many people in the way. So unless you know someone in management, you could be the sharpest guy in the world and you’re still gonna be blocked from advancing, or at least advancing quickly.

“But at Duke, that doesn’t exist. Any sharp guy can walk in there and write his own ticket. That’s the reality. It’s one of the advantages a small company has over a big company, and not just in this industry, in any industry. On the other hand, we have stability on our side and we have a track record. People don’t worry about getting their paychecks on payday, and they know there’s always another new issue around the corner. Victor’s gonna try to undermine those things, which is why he’s spreading the sorts of rumors he is right now.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Anyway, I’ll address that in this afternoon’s meeting, and it’s something
you,
Danny, need to start reinforcing during your own meetings, if you can get past all the homo-bashing shit. A lot of this is gonna be a war of propaganda—although three months from now it’ll be a moot point and Victor’ll be licking his wounds.” I smiled confidently. “So, what else?”

“Some of the smaller firms are taking potshots at us,” said Wigwam, in his usual glum tone. “Trying to steal a few deals, a broker here and there. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

“It’ll pass only if you
make it
pass,” I snapped. “Let word leak out that we’re gonna sue any Stratton spin-off that tries stealing brokers. Our new policy is gonna be a heart for an eye.” I looked at Danny and said, “Anybody else receive a grand-jury subpoena?”

Danny shook his head no. “Not that I’m aware of, at least not in the boardroom. So far it’s just me, you, and Kenny. I don’t think anyone in the boardroom knows there’s an investigation.”

“Well,” I said, losing confidence daily, “there’s still a good shot the whole thing is a fishing expedition. I should know something soon. I’m just waiting on Bo.”

After a few moments of silence, Wigwam said, “By the way, Madden signed the escrow agreement and gave me back the stock certificate, so you can stop worrying about that.”

Danny said, “I
told
you Steve’s head is in the right place.”

I resisted the urge to tell Danny that, as of late, Steve had been bashing him at unprecedented levels, saying Danny was incapable of running Stratton and I should focus more of my attention on helping him, Steve, build Steve Madden Shoes, which was showing greater potential than ever. Sales were growing at fifty percent a month—a month!—and they were still accelerating. But from an operational perspective, Steve was in way over his head, with manufacturing and distribution lagging far behind sales. In consequence, the company was getting a bad reputation with the department stores for delivering its shoes late. At Steve’s urging, I’d been seriously considering moving my office to Woodside, Queens, where Steve Madden Shoes kept its corporate headquarters. Once there, I would share an office with Steve, and he would focus on the creative side and I would focus on the business side.

But all I said was, “I’m not saying Steve’s head is in the wrong place. But now that we have the stock, it’ll make it that much easier for him to do the right thing. Money makes people do strange things, Danny. Just have patience; you’ll find out soon enough.”

At one p.m. I called Janet in for a pep talk. Over the last few days she had been looking very upset. Today she seemed on the verge of tears.

“Listen,” I said in a tone a father would use with a daughter, “there’s a lot to be thankful for, sweetie. I’m not saying you don’t have grounds to be upset, but you have to look at this as a new beginning, not an end. We’re still young. Maybe we’ll take it easy for a few months, but after that it’ll be full steam ahead.” I smiled warmly. “Anyway, for now we’ll work out of the house, which is perfect, because I consider you a part of my family.”

Janet began snuffling back tears. “I know. It’s…it’s just that I was here since the beginning, and I watched you build this from nothing. It was like watching a miracle happen. It was the first time I ever felt”—loved? I thought—“I don’t know. When you walked me down…like a father would…I…” and with that, Janet broke down, crying hysterically.

Oh, Jesus! I thought. What had I done wrong? My goal had been to console her, and now she was crying. I needed to call the Duchess! She was an expert at this sort of thing. Perhaps she could rush down here and take Janet home, although that would take too long.

Having no choice, I walked over to Janet and hugged her gently. With great tenderness, I said, “There’s nothing wrong with crying, but don’t forget that there’s a lot to look forward to. Ultimately, Stratton’s gonna fold, Janet; it’s only a question of when; but since we’re leaving
now,
we’ll always be remembered as a success.” I smiled and made my tone more upbeat. “Anyway, Nadine and I are having dinner tonight with my parents, and we’re bringing Channy along. I want you to come too, okay?”

Janet smiled—smiled at the thought of seeing Chandler—and I couldn’t help but wonder what that said about the state of our own lives, when only the purity and innocence of an infant could bring us peace.

I was fifteen minutes into my farewell speech when it dawned on me that I was giving the eulogy at my own funeral. But on the brighter side, I also had the unique opportunity of witnessing the reactions of all those attending my burial.

And just look at them sitting there, hanging on my every word!
So many rapt expressions…so many eager eyes…so many well-formed torsos leaning forward in their seats. Look at those wildly adoring stares from the sales assistants with their lusty blond manes and their delectably plunging necklines and, of course, their incredibly loamy loins. Perhaps I should be planting subliminal suggestions deep inside their minds—that every last one of them should burn with the insatiable desire to blow me and then swallow every last drop of my very manhood, for the rest of their natural lives.

Christ, what a fucking pervert I was!
Even now, in the middle of my own farewell speech, my mind was double-tracking wildly. My lips were moving up and down, as I went about the process of thanking the Strattonites for five years of undying loyalty and admiration, yet I still found myself questioning whether or not I should’ve banged more of the sales assistants. What did that say about me? Did it make me weak? Or was it only natural to want to bang them all? After all, what was the point of having the
power
if you didn’t use it to get laid? In truth, I hadn’t exploited that aspect of the power as much as I could have, or at least not to the extent Danny had! Would I come to regret that one day? Or maybe I’d done the right thing? The mature thing! The responsible thing!

All these bizarre thoughts were roaring through my head with the ferocity of an F-5 tornado, while self-serving words of wisdom gushed out of my mouth in torrents, without the slightest bit of conscious effort. And then I realized that my mind wasn’t actually double-tracking (which it always did), but it was triple-tracking, which was truly fucking bizarre.

On track three there was an internal monologue, questioning the decadent nature of track two, which was focusing on the pros and cons of getting blown by the sales assistants. Meanwhile, track one was humming along uninterrupted, as my words to the Strattonites came tumbling from my lips like tiny pearls of self-serving wisdom, and the words were coming from…where? Perhaps from the part of the brain that works independently of conscious direction…or maybe the words were pouring out from sheer force of habit. After all, I’d given how many meetings over the last five years?…Two a day for five years…So with three hundred working days in a year, it translated into 1,500 working days, times two meetings per day, which equaled 3,000 meetings in total, minus whatever meetings Danny had given, which were probably ten percent of the total, subtracted from the gross number of 3,000 meetings, and the number 2,700 came into my mind just like that, but the tiny pearls of self-serving wisdom had continued tumbling from my lips as I did the math…

…and when I snapped back into the moment, I found myself explaining how the investment-banking firm of Stratton Oakmont was sure to survive—
sure to survive!
—because it was bigger than any one person and bigger than any one thing. And then I felt the urge to steal a line from FDR—who in spite of having been a Democrat, still seemed like a reasonably okay guy, although I’d recently been informed that his wife was a dyke—and I began explaining to the Strattonites how there was nothing to fear but fear itself.

It was at this point that I felt compelled to reemphasize how Danny was more than capable of running the firm, especially with someone as sharp as Wigwam at his side. But, alas, I still found myself looking at a thousand rolled eyeballs and an equal number of gravely shaking heads.

So now I felt it necessary to cross over the line of good judgment. “Listen, everyone: The fact that I’m being barred from the securities industry doesn’t stop me from giving Danny advice. I mean—really! Not only is it legal for me to give Danny advice, but I can also give advice to Andy Greene, Steve Sanders, the owners of Biltmore and Monroe Parker, and, for that matter, to anyone else in this boardroom who’s interested in hearing it. And just so you know, Danny and I have a tradition of eating breakfast and lunch together, and it’s a tradition we have no intention of breaking just because of some ridiculous settlement I was forced to make with the SEC—a settlement that I made only because I knew that it would ensure Stratton’s survival for the next hundred years!”

And with that came thunderous applause. I looked around the room. Ahhhh, such adoration! Such love for the Wolf of Wall Street! Until I locked eyes with Mad Max, who seemed to be blowing steam out of his fucking ears. What was he so fucking concerned about, anyway? Everybody else was eating this shit up! How come he couldn’t simply join in the cheer? I resisted the urge to draw the obvious conclusion that my father was reacting differently because he was the only person in the boardroom who actually gave a shit about me and he was somewhat concerned at watching his son jump off a regulatory cliff.

For the sake of Mad Max, I added, “Now, of course, this will only be advice, and by the very definition of the word it means that my suggestions don’t have to be followed!” to which Danny screamed from the side of the boardroom: “Yes, that’s true, but why on earth would anyone in their right mind not follow JB’s advice?”

Once again, thunderous applause! It spread through the boardroom like the Ebola virus, and soon the entire room was on its feet, giving the wounded Wolf his third standing ovation of the afternoon. I held up my hand for quiet, and I caught a pleasant glimpse of Carrie Chodosh, one of Stratton’s few female brokers, who also happened to be one of my favorites.

Carrie was in her mid-thirties, which at Stratton made her a virtual antique. Nevertheless, she was still a looker. She’d been one of Stratton’s first brokers—coming to me when she was flat broke, on the balls of her perfect ass. At the time, she was three months behind on her rent, and her Mercedes was being chased by a repo truck. You see, Carrie was another in a long line of beautiful women who had made the sad mistake of marrying the wrong man. After a ten-year marriage, her ex-husband refused to pay her a dime in child support.