The Wolf of Wall Street (40 page)

I dropped down to my knees and began sniffing the tops of her thighs, like a Pomeranian in heat. I said, “I need to talk to you about something.”

She giggled. “Let’s go over to the bed and talk there.”

I took a moment to run that through my mind, and the bed seemed pretty safe. In truth, the Duchess wasn’t any stronger than me; she was just an expert at using leverage, and the bed would minimize that.

On the bed, I maneuvered myself on top of her and I clasped my hands behind her neck and kissed her deeply, breathing in every last molecule of her. In that very instant I loved her so much that it seemed almost impossible.

She ran her fingers through my hair, pushing it back with gentle strokes. She said, “What’s wrong, baby? Why was Dennis here tonight?”

The high road or the low road, I wondered, looking at her legs. And then it hit me: Why tell her anything? Yes! I would buy her mother off! What an inspired notion! The Wolf strikes again! Suzanne needed a new car, so I would take her tomorrow to buy one and then spring the idea of the phony affidavit on her during idle conversation. “Hey, Suzanne, you look really great in this new convertible, and, by the way, can you just sign your name here, right at the bottom, where it says signature?…Oh, what does
I swear under penalty of perjury
mean? Well, it’s just legal jargon, so don’t even waste your time reading it. Just sign it, and if you happened to get indicted we can discuss it then.” Then I would swear Suzanne to secrecy and pray that she’d keep her mouth shut to the Duchess.

I smiled at the delectable Duchess and said, “It was nothing important. Dennis is taking over as auditor for Steve Madden, so we were going through some numbers. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is that I want this baby as much as you do. You’re the greatest mother in the whole world, Nae, and you’re the greatest wife too. I’m lucky to have you.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” said the Duchess, in a syrupy voice. “I love you too. Make love to me right now, honey.”

And I did.

BOOK IV

CHAPTER 30

NEW ADDITIONS

August 15, 1995
(Nine Months Later)

Y
ou little bastard!” screamed the delivering Duchess, sprawled out on a birthing table in Long Island Jewish Hospital. “You did this to me, and now you’re stoned during the birth of our son! I’m gonna rip your lungs out when I get off this table!”

It was ten a.m., or was it eleven? Who knew anymore?

Either way, I had just passed out cold, my face on the delivery table, as the Duchess was in the middle of a contraction. I was still standing, though hunched over at a ninety-degree angle, with my head between her puffy legs, which were now propped up on stirrups.

Just then I felt someone shaking me. “Are you all right?” said the voice of Dr. Bruno, sounding a million miles away.

Christ! I wanted to respond, but I was just so damn tired. The Ludes had really gotten the best of me this morning, although I had my reasons for getting stoned. After all, giving birth is a very stressful business—for the wife
and
the husband—and I guess there are some things that women just handle better than men.

It had been three trimesters since that very candlelit evening, and
Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional
had continued unabated. Suzanne had kept my confidence, and Aunt Patricia’s children had gone to Switzerland and claimed their inheritance. Agent Coleman, I assumed, had shit a pickle over the whole thing, and the last I’d heard of him was when he’d made an unannounced morning visit to Carrie Chodosh’s house, threatening her with jail time and the loss of her son if she refused to cooperate. But those were desperate words, I knew, from a desperate man. Carrie, of course, had stayed loyal—telling Agent Coleman to go fuck himself, in so many words.

And as the first trimester had become the second, Stratton continued to spiral downward, no longer able to pay me a million dollars a month. But I’d been expecting that, so I’d taken it in stride. Besides, I still had Biltmore and Monroe Parker, and they were each paying me one million per deal. And further cushioning the blow was Steve Madden Shoes. Steve and I could hardly keep up with all the department-store orders, and the program Elliot had laid out was working like a charm. We had five stores now and plans to open five more over the next twelve months. We were also starting to license our name, initially with belts and handbags and moving on to sportswear. And most importantly, Steve was learning to delegate authority and we were well on the way to building a first-class management team. About six months ago, Gary Deluca, aka the Drizzler, had finally convinced us to move our warehouse to South Florida, and it had turned out to be a fine idea. And John Basile, aka the Spitter, was so busy trying to keep up with our department-store orders that his spit storms were becoming less and less frequent.

Meanwhile, the Cobbler was making money hand over fist—although not from Steve Madden Shoes. Instead, it was coming from the rathole game, with Steve Madden Shoes representing his future. But that was fine with me. After all, Steve and I had become the closest of friends and were spending most of our free time together. On the other hand, Elliot had succumbed once more to his drug addiction—sliding deeper and deeper into debt and depression.

At the beginning of the Duchess’s third trimester I had my back operated on, but the procedure was unsuccessful—leaving me in worse shape than before. Perhaps I deserved it, though, because I had gone against the advice of Dr. Green, electing to have a local doctor (of dubious reputation) perform a minimally invasive procedure called a percutaneous disk extraction. The pain going down my left leg was excruciating and ceaseless. My only solace, of course, was Quaaludes, which I was always quick to point out to the Duchess, who was becoming increasingly annoyed at my constant slurring and frequent blackouts.

Nevertheless, she had fallen so deeply into the role of the codependent wife that she, too, no longer knew which way was up. And with all the money and the help and the mansions and the yacht and the sucking up at every department store and restaurant or wherever else we went, it was easy to pretend things were okay.

Just then, a terrible burning sensation under my nose—
smelling salts!

My head immediately popped up, and there was the delivering Duchess, her gigantic pussy staring at me with contempt.

“Are you okay?” asked Dr. Bruno.

I took a deep breath and said, “Yeah, I’m zine, Dr. Bruno. I just got a little bit queasy
zrom
the blood. I need a splash some water on my face.” I excused myself and ran to the bathroom, did two blasts of coke, and ran back to the delivery room, feeling like a new man. “Okay,” I said, no longer slurring. “Let’s go, Nae! Don’t give up now!”

“I’ll deal with you later,” she snapped.

And then she began to push, and then she screamed, and then she pushed some more, and then she grit her teeth, and then suddenly, as if by magic, her vagina opened up to the size of a Volkswagen and—
pop!
—out came my son’s head, with a thin coating of dark black hair. Next came a gush of water and then a moment later a tiny shoulder. Dr. Bruno grasped my son’s torso and twisted him gently, and just like that he was out.

Then I heard, “
Waaaaahhhhhhhh
…”

“Ten fingers and ten toes!” said a happy Dr. Bruno, placing the baby on the Duchess’s fat stomach. “You have a name yet?”

“Yes,” said the fat, beaming Duchess. “Carter. Carter James Belfort.”

“That’s a very fine name,” said Dr. Bruno.

In spite of my little mishap, Dr. Bruno was kind enough to allow me to cut the cord, and I did a good job. Having now earned his trust, he said, “Okay, it’s time for Daddy to hold his son while I finish up with Mommy.” With that, Dr. Bruno handed me my son.

I felt myself welling up with tears. I had a son.
A boy!
A baby Wolf of Wall Street! Chandler had been such a beautiful baby, and now I would get my first look at the beautiful face of my son. I looked down and—what the hell? He looked awful! He was tiny and scrunched up, and his eyes were glued shut. He looked like an underfed chicken.

The Duchess must’ve seen the look on my face, and she said, “Don’t worry, honey. Most babies aren’t born looking like Chandler. He’s just a little premature. He’ll be as handsome as his daddy.”

“Well, hopefully he’ll look just like his mommy,” I replied, meaning every word. “But I don’t care what he looks like. I already love him so much I wouldn’t care if he had a nose the size of a banana.” As I looked at my son’s perfect, scrunched-up face, I realized there had to be a God, because this couldn’t possibly be an accident. It was a miracle to create this perfect little creature from an act of love.

I stared at him for what seemed like a very long time, until Dr. Bruno said, “Oh, Jesus, she’s hemorrhaging. Get the operating room ready now! And get an anesthesiologist in here!” The nurse took off like a bat out of hell.

Dr. Bruno regained his composure and calmly said, “Okay, Nadine, we have a slight complication. You have placenta accreta. What that means, honey, is that your placenta has grown too deeply into the uterine wall. Unless we can get it out manually, you could lose a great deal of blood. Now, Nadine, I’m gonna do everything possible to get it out clean”—he paused, as if trying to find the right words—“but if I can’t, I’ll have no choice but to perform a hysterectomy.”

And before I even had a chance to tell my wife I loved her, two orderlies came running in and grabbed her bed and wheeled her out. Dr. Bruno followed. When he reached the door, he turned to me and said, “I’ll do everything possible to save her uterus.” Then he walked out, leaving Carter and me alone.

I looked down at my son, and I started to cry. What would happen if I lost the Duchess? How could I possibly raise two children without her? She was everything to me. The very insanity of my life depended on her making everything okay. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. I had to be strong for my son, for Carter James Belfort. Without even realizing it I found myself rocking him in my arms, saying a silent prayer to the Almighty, asking him to spare the Duchess and to bring her back to me whole.

Ten minutes later Dr. Bruno came back into the room. With a great smile on his face, he said, “We got the placenta out, and you’ll never believe how.”

“How?” I said, grinning from ear to ear.

“We called in one of our interns, a tiny Indian girl, who has the most slender hands imaginable. She was able to reach up inside your wife’s womb and manually pull out the placenta. It was a miracle, Jordan. A placenta accreta is very rare, and it’s very dangerous. But it’s fine now. You have a perfectly healthy wife and a perfectly healthy son.”

And such were the famous last words of Dr. Bruno, the King of Jinxes.

CHAPTER 31

THE JOY OF PARENTHOOD

T
he next morning, Chandler and I were alone in the master bedroom, engaged in a heated debate. I was doing most of the talking, while she was sitting on the floor, playing with multicolored wooden blocks. I was trying to convince her that the new addition to the family would be a good thing for her, that things would be even better than before.

I smiled at the baby genius and said, “Listen, thumbkin, he’s so cute and little, you’re gonna fall in love with him the second you see him. And just think how much fun he’ll be when he gets older; you’ll be able to boss him around all the time! It’s gonna be great!”

Channy looked up from her construction project and stared me down with those big blue eyes she’d inherited from her mother, and she said, “No, just leave him in the hospital.” Then she turned back to her blocks.

I sat down next to the baby genius and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. She smelled clean and fresh, just the way a little girl should. She was a little more than two years old now, and her hair was a glorious shade of chestnut brown and fine as corn silk. It went down past her shoulder blades, and there were tiny curls on the bottom. I found the mere sight of her touching beyond belief. “Listen, thumbkin, we can’t leave him at the hospital; he’s part of the family now. Carter’s your baby brother, and the two of you are gonna be best friends!”

With a shrug: “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, I have to go to the hospital now and pick him and Mommy up, so either way he’s coming home, thumbkin. Just remember that Mommy and I still love you just as much. There’s enough love to go around for everybody.”

“I know,” she replied nonchalantly, still focusing on her construction project. “You can bring him. It’s okay.”

Very impressive, I thought. With a simple okay she had now accepted the new addition to the family.

Rather than going directly to the hospital, I had to make one quick stop along the way. It was an impromptu business meeting at a restaurant called Millie’s Place, in the tony suburb of Great Neck, about a five-minute car ride from Long Island Jewish. My plan was to blow out of the meeting quickly and then pick up Carter and the Duchess and head out to Westhampton. I was running a few minutes late, and as the limo pulled up I could see Danny’s boiling white teeth through the restaurant’s plate-glass window. He was sitting at a circular table, accompanied by the Chef, Wigwam, and a crooked lawyer named Hartley Bernstein, whom I was rather fond of. Hartley’s nickname was the Weasel, because he was the spitting image of a rodent. In fact, he could have been a Hollywood stunt double for the comic book character BB Eyes from
Dick Tracy.

Although Millie’s Place wasn’t open for breakfast, the restaurant’s owner, Millie, had agreed to open the restaurant early to accommodate us. That was appropriate, considering that Millie’s Place was where the Strattonites would come after each new issue to drink and eat and fuck and suck and drop and snort and do whatever else Strattonites did—and it was all done courtesy of the firm, which would receive a bill, between $25,000 and $100,000, depending on how much damage was done.

As I approached the table I noticed a fifth person sitting there: Jordan Shamah, Stratton’s recently appointed Vice President. He was a childhood friend of Danny’s and his nickname was the Undertaker, because his rise to power had little to do with his performance and more to do with his undermining every last soul who’d stood in his way. The Undertaker was short and pudgy, and his primary undertaking method was good old-fashioned backstabbing, although he was also adept at character assassination and rumormongering.

I exchanged a quick round of Mafia-style hugs with my erstwhile partners-in-crime and then settled down in an armchair and poured myself a cup of coffee. The goal of the meeting was a sad one: to convince Danny to close down Stratton Oakmont, using the Cockroach Theory, which meant that before he actually closed Stratton he would first open a series of smaller brokerage firms—each of them owned by a front man—and then he would divide the Strattonites into small groups and shift them to the new firms. Once the process was complete, he would close Stratton and move himself to one of the new firms, where he could run it from behind the scenes, under the guise of being a consultant.

It was the generally accepted way for brokerage firms under regulatory heat to stay one step ahead—essentially, closing down and reopening under a different name, thereby starting the process of making money and fighting the regulators all over again. It was like stepping on a cockroach and squashing it, only to find ten new ones scurrying in all directions.

Anyway, given Stratton’s current problems, it was the appropriate course of action, but Danny didn’t subscribe to the Cockroach Theory. Instead, he had developed his own theory, which he referred to as Twenty Years of Blue Skies. According to
this
theory, all Stratton had to do was get past its current wave of regulatory hurdles, and it could stay in business for twenty more years. It was preposterous! Stratton had a year left at most. By now all fifty states were circling above Stratton like vultures over a wounded carcass, and the NASD, the National Association of Securities Dealers, had joined the party too.

But Danny was in complete denial. In fact, he had become a Wall Street version of Elvis in his final days—when his handlers would cram his enormous bulk into a white leather jumpsuit and push him onstage to sing a few songs. Then they would drag him back off before he passed out from heat exhaustion and Seconals. According to Wigwam, Danny was now climbing on top of desks during sales meetings and smashing computer monitors onto the floor and cursing the regulators. Obviously, the Strattonites ate this sort of shit up, so Danny was now kicking it up a notch—pulling down his pants and pissing on stacks of NASD subpoenas, to thunderous applause.

Wigwam and I locked eyes, so I motioned with my chin, as if to say, “Offer up your two cents.” Wigwam nodded confidently and said, “Listen, Danny, the truth is I don’t know how much longer I can even get deals through. The SEC’s been playing four-corners defense, and it’s taking six months to get anything approved. If we start working on a new firm now, I could be in business by the end of the year—doing deals for
all
of us.”

Danny’s reply wasn’t exactly what Wigwam had hoped for. “Let me tell you something, Wigwam. Your motives are so obvious it’s fucking nauseating. There’s lots of time left before we need to consider cockroaching it, so why don’t you take your fucking rug off and stay awhile.”

“You know what, Danny?
Go fuck yourself!
” snapped Wigwam, running his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look more natural. “You’re so drugged out all the time you don’t even know which way is up anymore. I’m not wasting my life away while you drool in the office like a fucking imbecile.”

The Undertaker saw an opportunity to put a hatchet in Wigwam’s back. “That’s not true,” argued the Undertaker. “Danny doesn’t drool in the office. Maybe he slurs once in a while, but even then he’s always in control.” Now the Undertaker paused, searching for a spot to inject his first dose of embalming fluid. “And you shouldn’t be one to talk, by the way. You spend your whole day chasing around that smelly slut Donna, with her putrid armpits.”

I was fond of the Undertaker; he was a real company guy—way too dumb to actually think for himself, expending most of his mental energy conjuring up devilish rumors about those he was looking to bury. But in this particular instance his motives were obvious: He had a hundred customer complaints against him, and if Stratton went under he would never be able to get registered again.

I said, “All right, enough of this shit—please!” I shook my head in disbelief; Stratton was totally out of control. “I gotta get to the hospital. I’m only here because I want the best for everyone. I personally couldn’t care less whether or not Stratton pays me another dime. But I do have other interests—selfish interests, I admit—and they have to do with all the arbitrations being filed. A lot of them are naming me, in spite of the fact that I’m not with the firm anymore.” I looked directly at Danny. “You’re in the same position as me, Dan, and my sense is that even if there are Twenty Years of Blue Skies ahead, the arbitrations aren’t gonna stop.”

The Weasel chimed in: “We can take care of the arbitrations through an asset sale. We would structure it so that Stratton
sold
the brokers to the new firms, and, in return, they would agree to pay for any arbitration that came up for a period of three years. After that, the statute of limitations will kick in and you guys will be in the clear.”

I looked at the Chef, and he nodded in agreement. It was interesting, I thought. I had never paid close attention to the wisdom of the Weasel. In essence, he was the legal counterpart to the Chef, but unlike the Chef, who was a man’s man—overflowing with charisma—the Weasel lacked those traits entirely. I had never thought him to be stupid; it was just that every time I looked at him, I imagined him nibbling a block of Swiss cheese. Nevertheless, his latest idea was brilliant. The customer lawsuits were troubling me, totaling more than $70 million now. Stratton was paying them, but if Stratton went belly-up, it could turn into a real fucking nightmare.

Just then Danny said, “JB, let me talk to you by the bar for a second.”

I nodded, and we headed to the bar, where Danny immediately filled two glasses to the rim with Dewar’s. He lifted one of the glasses, and said, “Here’s to Twenty Years of Blue Skies, my friend!” He kept holding his glass up, waiting for me to join the toast.

I looked at my watch: It was ten-thirty. “Come on, Danny! I can’t drink right now. I gotta go to the hospital and pick up Nadine and Carter.”

Danny shook his head gravely. “It’s bad luck to refuse a toast this early in the morning. You really willing to risk it?”

“Yes,” I snarled, “I’m willing to risk it.”

Danny shrugged. “Suit yourself,” and he downed what had to be five shots of scotch. “Ho baby!” he muttered. Then he shook his head a few times and reached into his pocket and pulled out four Ludes. “Will you at least take a couple Ludes with me—before you ask me to shut the firm down?”

“Now you’re talking!” I said, smiling.

Danny smiled broadly and handed me two Ludes. I walked over to the sink, turned on the water, and stuck my mouth in the water stream. Then I casually stuck my hand in my pocket and dropped the two Ludes in there for safekeeping. “Okay,” I said, rubbing my fingertips together, “I’m a ticking time bomb now, so let’s make it fast.”

I smiled sadly at Danny and found myself wondering how many of my current problems could be attributed to him? Not that I had deluded myself to the point where I was laying all the blame on his doorstep, but there was no denying that Stratton would have never spun this far out of control without Danny. Yes, it was true that I had been the so-called brains of the outfit, but Danny had been the muscle, the enforcer, so to speak—doing things on a daily basis that I could have never done, or at least couldn’t have done and still looked at myself in the mirror each morning. He was a true warrior, Danny, and I didn’t know whether to respect him or loathe him for it anymore. But above all I felt sad.

“Listen, Danny, I can’t tell you what to do with Stratton. It’s your firm now, and I respect you too much to tell you what you have to do. But if you want my opinion, I’d say close it down right now and walk away with all the marbles. You do it just the way Hartley said: You have the new firms assume all the arbitrations and then you get paid as a consultant. It’s the right move, and it’s the smart move. It’s the move
I
would make if I were still running the show.”

Danny nodded. “I’ll do it, then. I just wanna give it a few more weeks to see what happens with the states, okay?”

I smiled sadly again, knowing full well that he had no intentions of closing down the firm. All I said was, “Sure, Dan, that sounds reasonable.”

Five minutes later I had finished my good-byes and was climbing into the back of the limousine, when I saw the Chef coming out of the restaurant. He walked over to the limo and said, “In spite of what Danny’s saying, you know he’s never gonna close down the firm. They’re gonna have to take him out of that place in handcuffs.”

I nodded slowly and said, “Tell me something I don’t know, Dennis.” Then I hugged the Chef, climbed into the back of the limousine, and headed for the hospital.

It was only by coincidence that Long Island Jewish Hospital was in the town of Lake Success, less than a mile from Stratton Oakmont. Perhaps that was why no one seemed surprised as I made my way around the maternity ward passing out gold watches. I had done the same thing when Chandler was born and had made quite a splash then. For some inexplicable reason I got an irrational joy out of wasting $50,000 on people I would never see again.

It was a little before eleven when I finally completed my happy ritual. As I walked into the room where the Duchess was staying, I couldn’t find her. She was lost amid the flowers.
Christ!
There were thousands of them! The room was exploding with color—fantastic shades of red and yellow and pink and purple and orange and green.