The Wolf of Wall Street (47 page)

And fuck her for that! Who the hell was she to tell me what to do, especially when I’d become a coke addict for her benefit! After all, she had been threatening to leave me if I didn’t stop falling asleep in restaurants. So that was why I’d switched to coke in the first place. And now she was saying things like: “You’re sick. You’ve haven’t slept in a month. You won’t even make love to me anymore! And you only weigh a hundred thirty pounds. All you eat are Froot Loops. And your skin is green!” To have given the Duchess the Life and have her turn on me at the last second! Well, fuck her too! It was easy for her to love me when I was sick. All those nights when I was in chronic pain, she would come in and try to comfort me and tell me that she loved me no matter what. And now it turned out that it was all a clever plot. She could no longer be trusted. Fine. Good. Let her go her own way. I didn’t need her. In fact, I didn’t need anybody.

All these thoughts were roaring through my brain as I walked up the mahogany stairs and opened the front door to my latest mansion. “Hello,” I said, in a very loud voice, stepping through the front door. The entire rear wall was glass, and I was looking at a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. At seven p.m. at this time of spring, the sun was just setting behind me, on the bay side, and the water looked an interesting shade of Prince purple. Meanwhile, the house looked gorgeous. Yes, there was no denying that in spite of the Duchess being a world-class pain in the ass—a henpecking killjoy of biblical proportions—she had a flair for decorating. The entryway led to a vast living room. It was a wide-open space with soaring ceilings. There was so much furniture crammed into this place it was fucking mind-boggling. Overstuffed sofas and love seats and club chairs and wing chairs and ottomans were scattered this way and that, each one a separate seating area. All of this fabulous fucking furniture was white and taupe, very beachy, very shabby chic.

Just then came the royal greeting committee. It was Maria, the fat cook, and her husband, Ignacio, a mean-spirited little butler, who at four-foot-eight was a shade taller than his wife. They were from Portugal and prided themselves on providing service in the formal, traditional way. I despised them because Gwynne despised them, and Gwynne was one of the few people who truly understood me—she and my children. Who knew if these two could be trusted? I would have to keep a close eye on them…and, if necessary, neutralize them.

“Good evening, Mr. Belfort,” said Maria and Ignacio in unison. Ignacio bowed formally and Maria curtsied. Then Ignacio added, “How are you this evening, sir?”

“Never better,” I muttered. “Where’s my loving wife?”

“She’s in town, shopping,” replied the cook.

“What a fucking surprise,” I snarled, walking past them. I was carrying a Louis Vuitton travel bag, loaded with dangerous drugs.

“Dinner will be served at eight,” said Ignacio. “Mrs. Belfort asked me to inform you that your guests will be here around seven-thirty, and if you could please be ready by then.”

Oh, fuck her, I thought. “Okay,” I sputtered. “I’ll be in the TV room; please don’t disturb me. I have important business to attend to.” With that, I went into the TV room, flicked on the Rolling Stones, and broke out the drugs. The Duchess had instructed me to be ready by seven-thirty. What the fuck did that mean? That I should be dressed in a fucking tuxedo—or top hat and tails? What was I, a fucking monkey? I was wearing gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, and that was just fucking fine! Who the fuck paid for all this shit? Me—that’s who! And she had the nerve to be giving me orders!

Eight p.m., dinner is served! And who needs it? Give me Froot Loops and skim milk, not this chichi bullshit that Maria and the Duchess hold so dear. The dinner table was the size of a horseshoe pit. Still, the dinner guests weren’t all that bad, with the exception of the Duchess. She was sitting across from me, on the other side of the pit. She was so far away I needed an intercom to converse with her, which was probably a good thing. Admittedly, she was gorgeous. But trophy wives like the Duchess were a dime a dozen, and the good ones wouldn’t turn on me for no good reason.

Sitting to my right were Dave and Laurie Beall, who were up visiting from Florida. Laurie was a good blond egg. She knew her place in the general scheme of things, so she understood me. The only problem was that she was also under the influence of the Duchess, who’d crawled inside her very mind—planting subversive thoughts against me. So Laurie couldn’t be fully trusted.

Her husband, Dave, was another story. He could be trusted—more or less. He was a big country bumpkin—six-two, two hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle. When he was in college he worked as a bouncer. One day someone had mouthed off to him, and Dave punched him in the side of the head and knocked his eye out. Rumor had it that the guy’s eye was hanging by a couple of ligaments. Dave was an ex-Strattonite, who now worked at DL Cromwell. Tonight, I could count on him to repel intruders. In fact, he would do it with relish.

My other two guests were the Schneidermans, Scott and Andrea. Scott was a Bayside boy, although we hadn’t been friends growing up. He was a confirmed homosexual who’d gotten married for inexplicable reasons, although, if I had to guess, it was to have children, of which he now had one, a daughter. He, too, was an ex-Strattonite, although he’d never possessed the killer instinct. He was out of the business now. He was here for only one reason: He was my coke dealer. He had a connection at the airport and was getting me pure cocaine from Colombia. His wife was innocuous—a chubby brunette with only a few words to say, all of which were meaningless.

After four courses and two and a half hours of torturous conversation, it was finally eleven o’clock. I said to Dave and Scott, “Come on, guys, let’s go into the TV room and watch a movie.” I rose from my chair and headed for the TV room, with Dave and Scott in tow. I had no doubt the Duchess wanted to talk to me as little as I wanted to talk to her. And that was fine. Our marriage was basically over; it was only a matter of time now.

What happened next started with an inspired notion I had to divide up my cocaine stash into two separate snorting parties. The first party would commence now and consist of eight grams of powdered cocaine. It would take place here, in the TV room, and last for approximately two hours. Then we would adjourn to the game room upstairs, where we would play pool and darts and get whacked on Dewar’s. Then, at two a.m., we would head back downstairs to the TV room and start the second snorting party, which would consist of a twenty-gram rock of ninety-eight percent pure cocaine. To snort it in one sitting would be a conquest worthy of the Wolf himself.

And follow this plan we did—right down to the very fucking letter, in fact—spending the next two hours snorting thick lines of cocaine through an 18-karat-gold straw, while we watched MTV with no sound and listened to “Sympathy for the Devil” on repeat mode. Then we went upstairs to the game room. When two a.m. rolled around, I said with a great smile, “The time has come to snort the rock, my friends! Follow me.”

We walked back downstairs to the TV room and sat in our previous positions. I reached over for the rock and it was gone. Gone? How the fuck was that possible? I looked at Dave and Scott and said, “Okay, guys: Stop fucking around. Which one of you took the rock?”

They both looked at me, astonished. Dave said, “What are you, kidding me? I didn’t take the rock! I swear on my kid’s eyes!”

Scott added, in a defensive tone, “Don’t look at me! I would never do something like that.” He shook his head gravely. “Fucking around with another man’s coke is a sin against God. Nothing less.”

The three of us got down on our hands and knees and started crawling around on the carpet. Two minutes later we were looking at one another, dumbfounded—and empty-handed. I said skeptically, “Maybe it fell behind the seat cushions.”

Dave and Scott nodded, and we proceeded to remove all the cushions. We found nothing.

“I can’t believe this shit,” I said. “It makes no fucking sense.” Then a wild inspiration came bubbling up into my brain. Perhaps the rock fell
inside
one of the seat cushions! It seemed improbable, but stranger things had happened, hadn’t they?

Indeed. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and I ran to the kitchen, full speed, and slid a stainless-steel butcher knife out of its wooden holder. Then I ran back to the TV room, armed and ready. The rock was mine!

“What are you doing?” asked Dave, in the tone of the incredulous.

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing?” I sputtered, dropping to my knees and plunging the knife into a seat cushion. I began throwing the foam and feathers on the carpet. The sofa had three seat cushions and an equal number of backrests. In less than a minute I’d shredded all of them. “Motherfucker!” I muttered. I switched my focus to the love seat, cutting the cushions open with a vengeance. Still nothing. Now I was getting pissed. “I can’t believe this shit! Where’d the fucking rock go?” I looked at Dave. “Were we in the living room at all?”

He shook his head back and forth nervously. “I don’t remember being in the living room,” he said. “Why don’t we just forget about the rock?”

“Are you fucking crazy or something? I’m gonna find that fucking rock if it’s the last thing I do!” I turned to Scott and narrowed my eyes accusingly. “Don’t bullshit me, Scott. We
were
in the living room, weren’t we?”

Scott shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m really sorry, but I don’t remember being in the living room.”

“You know what?” I screamed. “You guys are both worthless pieces of shit! You know as well as I do that that fucking rock fell into a seat cushion. It’s gotta be in there somewhere, and I’m gonna fucking prove it to you.” I stood up, kicked the remains of the cushions out of my way, and walked through a littering of foam and feathers into the living room. In my right hand was the butcher knife. My eyes were wide open. My teeth were clenched in rage.

Look at all these fucking sofas! Fuck her if she thinks she can get away with buying all this furniture! I took a deep breath. I was on the edge. I needed to get a grip. But I had come up with a perfect plan—saving the rock until two in the morning. It could’ve been perfect and now all this furniture. Fuck it all! I dropped to my knees and went to work, making my way around the living room, stabbing wildly until every couch and chair was destroyed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dave and Scott staring at me.

And then it hit me—it was inside the carpet! How fucking obvious! I looked down at the taupe carpet. How much did this fucking thing cost? A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand? It was easy for her to spend my money. I started slicing up the carpet, like a man possessed.

A minute later, nothing. I sat on my haunches and looked around the living room. It was completely destroyed. Just then I saw a stand-up brass lamp. It looked human. With my heart palpitating out of my chest, I dropped the butcher knife. I picked the lamp up over my head and started swinging it the way the Norse god Thor swung his hammer. Then I released it in the direction of the fireplace, and it went flying into the stone…
CRASH!
I ran back over to the knife and picked it up.

Just then the Duchess came running out of the master bathroom, wearing a tiny white robe. Her hair was perfect and her legs looked glorious. It was her way of trying to manipulate me, to control me. It had worked in the past, but not this time. I had my guard up now. I was wise to her game.

“Oh, my God!” she screamed, putting her hand to her mouth. “Please, stop! Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” I screamed. “You want to know fucking why? Well, I’ll tell you fucking why! I’m James fucking Bond looking for microfilm! That’s fucking why!”

She looked at me with her mouth agape and her eyes wide open. “You need help,” she said tonelessly. “You’re a sick man.”

Her very words enraged me. “Oh, fuck you, Nadine! Who the fuck are you to tell me I’m sick? What are you gonna do—try to take a swing at me? Well, come over and see what happens!”

All at once a terrible pain in my back!
Someone was pushing me to the floor! Now my wrist was being crushed. “Oww, fuck!” I screamed. I looked up and Dave Beall was on top of me. He squeezed my wrist until the butcher knife fell to the ground.

He looked up at Nadine. “Go back inside,” he said calmly. “I’ll take care of him. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

Nadine ran back into the master bedroom and slammed the door. A second later I heard the lock click.

Dave was still on top of me, and I turned my head around to face him and started laughing. “All right,” I said, “you can let me up now. I was only kidding. I wasn’t gonna hurt her. I was just trying to show her who’s boss.”

Clutching my right biceps with his enormous hand, Dave led me over to a seating area on the other side of the house—one of the few I hadn’t destroyed. He placed me in an overstuffed club chair, looked up at Scott, and said, “Go get the vial of Xanax.”

The last thing I remember was Dave handing me a glass of water and a few Xanax.

I woke up and it was nighttime, the following day. I was back in my office in Old Brookville, sitting behind my mahogany desk. Just how I got here I wasn’t quite sure, but I did remember saying, “Thank you, Rocco!” to Rocco Day, for pulling me out of the car after I’d smashed it into the stone pillar at the edge of the estate on my way home from Southampton. Or had it been Rocco Night I’d thanked? Well…who really gave a shit? They were loyal to Bo, and Bo was loyal to me, and the Duchess didn’t say much to either of them—so she hadn’t crawled inside their minds yet. I would be on alert, though.

Where was the Doleful Duchess? I wondered. I hadn’t seen her since the butcher-knife episode. She was home, but she was hiding somewhere in the mansion—hiding from me! Was she in the master bedroom? No matter. The important thing was my children; at least I was a good father. In the end, that’s how I would be remembered: He was a good father, a family man at heart, and a wonderful provider!

I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out my Ziploc bag with nearly a pound of coke in it. I dumped it on my desktop and dropped my head into the pile and snorted with both nostrils simultaneously. Two seconds later I jerked my head up and muttered, “Holy fucking Christ! Oh, my God!” and then I slumped back in my chair and started breathing heavily.