The Wolf of Wall Street (3 page)

And with that thought, I passed out.

CHAPTER 2

THE DUCHESS OF BAY RIDGE

December 13, 1993

T
he next morning—or, if you want to get technical about it, a few hours later—I was having an awesome dream. It was the sort of dream that every young man hopes and prays for, so I decided to go with it. I’m alone in bed, when Venice the Hooker comes to me. She kneels down at the edge of my sumptuous king-size bed, hovering just out of reach, a perfect little vision. I can see her clearly now…that lusty mane of chestnut brown hair…the fine features of her face…those juicy young jugs…those incredibly loamy loins, glistening with greed and desire.

“Venice,” I say. “Come to me, Venice. Come to me, Venice!”

Venice moves toward me, walking on her knees. Her skin is fair and white and shimmers amid the silk…the silk…there’s silk everywhere. An enormous canopy of white Chinese silk is suspended from above. Billows of white Chinese silk hang down at all four corners of the bed. So much white Chinese silk…I’m drowning in white fucking silk. In this very instant the ludicrous figures come popping into my mind: the silk cost $250 a yard, and there have to be two hundred yards of it. That’s $50,000 of white Chinese silk. So much white fucking silk.

But that’s my wife’s doing, my dear aspiring decorator—or, wait, that was last month’s aspiration, wasn’t it? Isn’t she an aspiring chef now? Or is she an aspiring landscape architect? Or is it a wine connoisseur? Or a clothing designer? Who could keep track of all her fucking aspirations? So tiring it is…so tiring to be married to Martha Stewart in embryo.

Just then I feel a drop of water. I look up. What the hell? Storm clouds? How can there be storm clouds inside the royal bedchamber? Where’s my wife?
Holy shit! My wife! My wife! Hurricane Nadine!

SPLASH!

I woke up to the angry yet gorgeous face of my second wife, Nadine. In her right hand was an empty twelve-ounce water glass; in her left hand was her own balled-up fist, punctuated by a seven-carat, yellow canary diamond in a platinum setting. She was less than five feet away, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, like a prizefighter. I made a quick mental note to watch out for the ring.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” I yelled halfheartedly. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and took a moment to study Wife Number Two.
God, she was a real piece of ass, my wife!
I couldn’t begrudge her that even now. She was wearing a tiny pink chemise that was so short and low cut that it made her look more naked than if she were wearing nothing at all. And those legs of hers! Christ, they looked scrumptious. But, still, that was beside the point. I needed to get tough with her and show her who was boss. Through clenched teeth, I said, “I swear to God, Nadine, I’m going to fucking kill—”

“Oh, I’m really fucking scared,” interrupted the blond firecracker. She shook her head in disgust, and her little pink nipples popped out of her next-to-nothing outfit. I tried not to stare, but it was difficult. “Maybe I should go run and hide,” she quipped. “Or maybe I’ll just stay here and
kick your fucking ass
!” The last few words she screamed.

Well, maybe
she
was boss. Either way, she had definitely earned her scene with me; there was no denying that. And the Duchess of Bay Ridge had a vicious temper. Yes, she was a duchess, all right—a Brit by birth, who still carried a British passport. It was a wonderful fact she never failed to remind me of. Yet, it was all very ironic, since she had never actually lived in Britain. In fact, she had moved to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, when she was still a baby, and it was there, in the land of dropped consonants and tortured vowels, where she was raised. Bay Ridge; it’s that tiny corner of the earth where words like
fuck
and
shit
and
bastard
and
prick
roll off the tongues of young natives with the poetic panache of T. S. Eliot and Walt Whitman. And it was there that Nadine Caridi—my lovable English, Irish, Scottish, German, Norwegian, and Italian mutt-of-a-duchess—learned to tie her curses together, as she was learning to tie the laces on her roller skates.

It was sort of a grim joke, I thought, considering that Mark Hanna had warned me about going out with a girl from Bay Ridge all those years ago. His girlfriend, as I recalled, had stabbed him with a pencil while he was sleeping; the Duchess preferred throwing water. So, in a way, I was ahead of the game.

Anyway, when the Duchess got angry it was as if her words were bubbling up from out of the rancid gullet of the Brooklyn sewer system. And no one could make her angrier than me, her loyal and trustworthy husband, the Wolf of Wall Street, who less than five hours ago was in the Presidential Suite of the Helmsley Palace with a candle in his ass.

“So tell me, you little shit,” snapped the Duchess, “who the fuck is Venice, huh?” She paused and took an aggressive step forward, and all at once she struck a pose, with her hips cocked in a display of insolence, one long, bare leg slewed out to the side, and her arms folded beneath her breasts, pushing her nipples out into plain view. She said, “She’s probably some little hooker, I bet.” She narrowed her big blue eyes accusingly. “You don’t think I know what you’re up to? Why, I oughta smash your fucking face in, you…you little…
ugghhhhh!
” It was an angry groan, and the moment she’d finished groaning she gave up her pose and began marching across the bedroom—marching on the custom-made beige and taupe $120,000 Edward Fields carpet. And she marched fast as lightning, all the way to the master bathroom, which was a good thirty feet away, where she turned on the faucet, refilled the water glass, turned off the faucet, and came marching back, looking twice as angry. Her teeth were clenched in unadulterated rage, making her square model-girl jaw really stand out. She looked like the Duchess from Hell.

Meanwhile, I was trying to gather my thoughts, but she was moving too fast. I had no time to think. It had to be those fucking Quaaludes! They had made me talk in my sleep again.
Oh, shit!
What had I said? I ran the possibilities through my mind: the limousine…the hotel…the drugs…Venice the Hooker…Venice with the candle—
Oh, God, the fucking candle!
I pushed the thought out of my mind.

I looked over at the digital clock on the night table: It was 7:16. Jesus! What time had I gotten home? I shook my head, trying to get out the cobwebs. I ran my fingers through my hair—Christ, I was soaked! She must have dumped the water right over my head. My own wife! And then she called me little—a little shit! Why had she called me that? I wasn’t that little, was I? She could be very cruel, the Duchess.

She was back now, less than five feet away, holding the water glass out in front of her, with her elbow cocked out to the side: her throwing position! And that look on her face:
pure poison.
Yet, still…such undeniable beauty! Not only her great mane of golden blond hair but those blazing blue eyes, those glorious cheekbones, her tiny nose, that perfectly smooth jaw-line, her chin with its tiny cleft, those creamy young breasts—a bit worse for the wear after breast-feeding Chandler, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with $10,000 and a sharp scalpel. And those legs…God almighty, those long bare legs of hers were off the charts! So perfect they were, the way they tapered so nicely at the ankle yet stayed so luscious above the knee. They were definitely her best asset, along with her ass.

It was only three years ago, in fact, when I had first laid eyes on the Duchess. It was a sight I found so alluring that I ended up leaving my kind first wife, Denise—paying her millions up front in one lump sum plus fifty thousand a month in non-tax-deductible maintenance, so she would walk away quietly without demanding a full-blown audit of my affairs.

And look how fast things had deteriorated! And what had I really done? Say a few words in my sleep? What was the crime in that? The Duchess was definitely overreacting here. In fact, at this point, I had every reason to be mad at her too. Perhaps I could maneuver this whole thing into a quick round of make-up sex, which was the best sex of all. I took a deep breath and said with complete and utter innocence, “Why are you so mad at me? I mean, you…you kinda got me confused here.”

The Duchess responded by cocking her blond head to the side, the way a person does after they’ve just heard something that completely defies logic. “You’re confused?” she snapped. “You’re fucking confused? Why…you…little…bastard!”
Little, again! Unbelievable!
“Where do you want me to start? How about you flying in here on your stupid helicopter at three in the morning, without so much as a fucking phone call to say you’d be late. Is that normal behavior for a married man?”

“But, I—”

“And a father, no less! You’re a father now! Yet you still act like a fucking infant! And does it even matter to you that I just had that ridiculous driving range sodded with Bermuda grass? You probably fucking ruined it!” She shook her head in disgust, then she plowed on: “But why should you give a shit? You’re not the one who spent your time researching the whole thing and dealing with the landscapers and the golf-course people. Do you know how much time I spent on that stupid fucking project of yours? Do you, you inconsiderate bastard?”

Ahhh, so she’s an aspiring landscape architect this month! But such a sexy architect! There had to be some way to turn this all around. Some magic words. “Honey, please, I’m—”

A warning through clenched teeth: “Don’t—you—honey—me! You don’t ever get to call me honey ever again!”

“But, honey—”

SPLASH!

That time I saw it coming, and I was able to pull the $12,000 silk comforter over my head—deflecting most of her righteous wrath. In fact, hardly a drop of water even touched me. But, alas, my victory was short-lived, and by the time I pulled down the comforter she was already marching back to the bathroom for a refill.

Now she was on her way back. The water glass was filled to the rim; her blue eyes were like death rays; her model-girl jaw looked a mile wide; and her legs…Christ! I couldn’t keep my eyes off them. Still, there was no time for that now. It was time for the Wolf to get tough. It was time for the Wolf to bare his fangs.

I removed my arms from beneath the white silk comforter, careful not to get them tangled in the thousands of tiny pearls that had been hand-crocheted onto the fabric. Then I cocked my elbows, like chicken wings, giving the irate Duchess a bird’s-eye view of my mighty biceps. I said, in a loud, forthright voice, “Don’t you dare throw that water at me, Nadine. I’m serious! I’ll give you the first two glasses out of anger, but to keep doing it again and again…well, it’s like stabbing a dead body when it’s lying on the floor in a pool of blood! It’s fucking sick!”

That seemed to slow her down—but only for a second. She said, in a mocking tone, “Will you stop flexing your arms, please? You look like a fucking imbecile!”

“I wasn’t flexing my arms,” I said, unflexing my arms. “You’re just lucky to have a husband who’s in such great shape. Right, sweetie?” I smiled my warmest smile at her. “Now get over here right this second and give me a kiss!” Even as the words escaped my lips I knew I’d made a mistake.

“Give you a kiss?” sputtered the Duchess. “What are you, fucking kidding me?” Disgust dripped off her very words. “I was an inch away from cutting your balls off and sticking them in one of my shoe boxes. Then you’d never find them!”

Jesus Christ, she was right about that! Her shoe closet was the size of Delaware, and my balls would be lost forever. With the utmost humility, I said, “Please give me a chance to explain, hon—I mean sweetie. Please, I’m begging you!”

All at once her face began to soften. “I can’t believe you!” she said, through tiny snuffles. “What did I do to deserve this? I’m a good wife. A beautiful wife. Yet I have a husband who comes home at all hours of the night and talks about another girl in his sleep!” She started moaning with contempt: “Uhhhhh…Venice…Come to me, Venice.”

Jesus Christ! Those Quaaludes could be a real killer sometimes. And now she was crying. It was a complete disaster. After all, what chance did I have of getting her back into bed while she was crying? I needed to switch gears here, to come up with a new strategy. In a tone of voice normally reserved for someone who’s standing on the edge of a cliff and threatening to jump, I said, “Put down the glass of water, sweetie, and stop crying. Please. I can explain everything, really!”

Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered the glass of water to waist level. “Go ahead,” she said in a tone ripe with disbelief. “Let me hear another lie from the man who lies for a living.”

That was true. The Wolf
did
lie for a living, although such was the nature of Wall Street, if you wanted to be a true power broker. Everyone knew that, especially the Duchess, so she really had no right to be angry about that either. Nonetheless, I took her sarcasm in stride, paused for a brief moment to give myself extra time to coagulate my bullshit story, and I said, “First of all, you have the whole thing backward. The only reason I didn’t call you last night was because I didn’t realize I’d be getting home so late until it was almost eleven. I know how much you like your beauty sleep, and I figured you’d be sleeping anyway, so what was the point of calling?”

The Duchess’s poisonous response: “Oh, you’re so fucking considerate. Let me go thank my lucky stars for having such a considerate husband.” Sarcasm oozed off her words like pus.

I ignored the sarcasm and decided to go for broke. “Anyway, you took this whole Venice business completely out of context. I was talking to Marc Packer last night about opening a Canastel’s in Venice, Calif—”

SPLASH!

“You’re a fucking liar!” she screamed, grabbing a matching silk bathrobe off the back of some obscenely expensive white fabric chair. “A total fucking liar!”

I let out an obvious sigh. “Okay, Nadine, you’ve had your fun for the morning. Now come back into bed and give me a kiss. I still love you, even though you soaked me.”

That look she gave me!
“You want to fuck me now?”