The Wolf of Wall Street (52 page)

True: I had acted like a monster toward her, not just on the stairs but over the very months leading up to that heinous act. Or perhaps years. Since the early years of our marriage, I had exploited our unspoken quid pro quo—that by providing her with the Life, I was entitled to certain liberties. And while there might be a germ of truth to that notion, there was no doubt that I had stepped way over the line.

Yet, in spite of everything, I felt that I still deserved compassion.

Did the Duchess lack compassion? Was there a certain coldness to her, a corner of her heart that was unreachable? In truth, I had always suspected as much. Like myself—like everyone—the Duchess was damaged goods; she was a good wife, but a wife who’d brought her own baggage into the marriage. As a child, her father had all but abandoned her. She had told me the stories of all the times she got dressed up on Saturdays and Sundays—gorgeous even then she was, with flowing blond hair and the face of an angel—and waited for her father to take her to a fancy dinner or on the roller coaster at Coney Island or to Riis Park, the local beach in Brooklyn, where he could proclaim to one and all: “This is my daughter! Look how beautiful she is! I’m so proud she’s mine.” Yet she would wait on the front stoop for him, only to be disappointed when he never showed or even called to humor her with a lame excuse.

Suzanne, of course, had covered for him—telling Nadine that her father loved her but that he was possessed by his own demons that drove him to the life of a wanderer, to a rootless existence. Was I now feeling the brunt of that? Was her very coldness a result of the barriers she’d erected as a child that precluded her from becoming a compassionate woman? Or was I simply grasping at straws? Perhaps this was payback—for all the philandering, the Blue Chips and the NASDAQS, the three-a.m. helicopter landings, and sleep-talking about Venice the Hooker, and the masseuse and the groping of the stewardess…

Or was the payback more subtle? Was it a result of all the laws I’d broken? Of all the stocks I’d manipulated? Of all the money I’d smuggled to Switzerland? For fucking over Kenny Greene, the Blockhead, who had been a loyal partner to me? It was hard to say anymore. The last decade of my life was unspeakably complicated. I had lived the sort of life that people read about only in novels.

Yet, this had been my life.
Mine.
For better or worse, I, Jordan Belfort, the Wolf of Wall Street, had been a true wild man. I had always looked at myself as being bulletproof—dodging death and incarceration, living my life like a rock star, consuming more drugs than any thousand men have the right to and still living to tell about it.

All these thoughts were roaring through my head, as I closed out my second day in the locked-down psychiatric unit of the Delray Medical Center. And as the drugs continued to make their way out of my cerebrum, my mind grew sharper and sharper. I was on the rebound—ready to face the world with all my faculties; ready to make mincemeat out of that bald bastard Steve Madden; ready to resume my fight with my nemesis, Special Agent Gregory Coleman; and ready to win the Duchess back, no matter what it took.

The next morning, just after pill call, I was summoned back into the rubber room, where I found two doctors waiting for me. One was fat and the other was average-looking, although he had bulging blue eyeballs and an Adam’s apple the size of a grapefruit. A glandular case, I figured.

They introduced themselves as Dr. Brad
^*11
and Dr. Mike
^*12
and immediately waved the orderlies out of the room. Interesting, I thought, but not nearly as interesting as the first two minutes of the conversation, when I came to the conclusion that these two were better suited as a stand-up comedy act than as drug interventionists. Or was that their method? Yes, these two guys seemed quite all right. In fact, I kind of liked them. The Duchess had flown them in from California, on a private jet, after Dennis Maynard informed her that the two of us hadn’t hit it off too well.

So these were the reinforcements.

“Listen,” said fat Dr. Brad, “I can sign you out of this shitty place right now and in two hours you can be at Talbot Marsh, sipping on a virgin piña colada and staring at a young nurse—who’s now one of the patients because she got caught shooting Demerol through her nurse’s skirt.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Or you could stay here for another day and become better acquainted with butterfly-lady and math-boy. But I gotta tell ya, I think you’d be crazy to stay in this place one second longer than you have to. I mean, it smells like…”

“Shit,” said the Glandular Case. “Why don’t you let us sign you out of here? I mean, I have no doubt that you’re crazy and everything, and you could probably use to be locked away for a couple of years, but not here—not in this shithole! You need to be in a classier loony bin.”

“He’s right,” added fat-Brad. “All kidding aside, there’s a limo downstairs waiting for us, and your jet’s at Boca Aviation. So let us sign you out of this madhouse, and let’s get on the jet and have some fun.”

“I agree,” added the Glandular Case. “The jet’s beautiful. How much did it cost your wife to fly us here from California?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I’m willing to bet she paid top-dollar. If there’s one thing the Duchess hates, it’s a bargain.”

They both laughed, especially fat-Brad, who seemed to find humor in everything. “The Duchess! I love that! She’s a good-looking lady, your wife, and she really loves you.”

“Why do you call her the Duchess?” asked the Glandular Case.

“Well, it’s a long story,” I said, “but I can’t actually take credit for the name, as much as I’d like to. It came from this guy Brian, who owns one of the brokerage firms I do a lot of business with. Anyway, we were on a private jet, flying home from St. Bart’s a bunch of Christmases ago, and we were all really hung over. Brian was sitting across from Nadine in the cabin, and he laid a humongous fart and said, ‘Oh, shit, Nae, I think I just left a few skid marks with that one!’ Nadine started getting pissed at him, telling him how uncouth and disgusting he was, so Brian said, ‘Oh, excuse me; I guess the Duchess of Bay Ridge never laid a fart in her silk panties and left a few skid marks there!’”

“That’s funny,” said fat-Brad. “The Duchess of Bay Ridge. I like that.”

“No, that’s not the funny part. It’s what happened next that was really funny. Brian thought his joke was so hysterical that he was doubled over laughing so he didn’t see the Duchess rolling up the Christmas edition of
Town and Country
magazine. Just as he was lifting his head up, she popped out of her seat, took the most enormous swat at his head you could possibly imagine, and knocked him unconscious right on the plane. I’m talking out—fucking—cold! Then she sat back down and started reading her magazine again. Brian came to a couple of minutes later, after his wife threw a glass of water in his face. Anyway, ever since then the name stuck.”

“That’s incredible!” said the Glandular Case. “Your wife looks like an angel. I wouldn’t think her the type to do something like that.” Fat-Brad nodded in agreement.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, you have no idea what she’s capable of. She might not look tough, but she’s strong as an ox. You know how many times she’s beaten me up? She’s especially good with water.” I smiled and let out a chuckle. “I mean, don’t get me wrong: I deserved most of the beatings. As much as I love the girl I haven’t exactly been a model husband. But I still think she should’ve visited me. If she did, I’d already be in rehab, but now I don’t wanna do it because I don’t like being held hostage like this.”

“I think she wanted to come,” said fat-Brad, “but Dennis Maynard advised her against it.”

“It figures,” I sputtered. “He’s a real piece a shit, that guy. As soon as all this is resolved I’m gonna have someone pay him a little visit.”

The comedy team refused to engage with me. “Can I make a suggestion to you?” asked the Glandular Case.

I nodded. “Sure, why not? I like you guys. It’s the other prick I hated.”

He smiled and looked around conspiratorially. Then he lowered his voice and said, “Why don’t you let us sign you out of here and take you to Atlanta and then just bolt out of the rehab after you check in? There’re no walls or bars or barbed wire or anything like that. You’ll be staying in a luxury condo with a bunch of wacky doctors.”

“Yeah,” said fat-Brad, “once we drop you in Atlanta, the Baker Act is nullified and you’ll be free to go. Just tell your pilot not to leave the airport. If you don’t like the rehab, just walk away.”

I started laughing. “You two guys are unbelievable! You’re trying to appeal to my larcenous heart, aren’t you?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to get you to rehab,” fat-Brad said. “You’re a nice guy and you deserve to live, not die at the end of a crack pipe, which is what’s gonna happen if you don’t get sober. Trust me—I speak from experience.”

“You’re a recovering addict too?” I asked.

“We both are,” said the Glandular Case. “I’m sober eleven years. Brad is sober thirteen years.”

“How is that even possible? The truth is I’d like to stop but I just can’t. I wouldn’t make it more than a few days, never mind thirteen years.”

“You can do it,” said fat-Brad. “Not for thirteen years, but I bet you make it through today.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I can make it through today, but that’s about it.”

“And that’s enough,” said the Glandular Case. “Today is all that matters. Who knows what tomorrow brings? Just take it one day at a time and you’ll be fine. That’s how I do it. I didn’t wake up this morning and say, ‘Gee, Mike, it’s important to control your urge to drink for the rest of your life!’ I said, ‘Gee, Mike, just make it for the next twenty-four hours and the rest of your life will take care of itself.’”

Fat-Brad nodded. “He’s right, Jordan. And I know what you’re probably thinking right now—that it’s just a stupid mind-dodge, like pulling the wool over your own eyes.” He shrugged. “And it probably is, but I personally couldn’t give a shit. It works, and that’s all I care about. It gave me my life back, and it’ll give you your life back too.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I liked these guys; I really did. And I truly wanted to get sober. So much that I could
taste
it. But my compulsion was too strong. All my friends did drugs; all my pastimes included drugs. And my wife…well, the Duchess hadn’t come to see me. With every terrible thing I’d done to her, I knew in my heart that I would never forget how she hadn’t come to see me after I’d tried to commit suicide.

And, of course, there was the Duchess’s side of things. Perhaps she would choose not to forgive me. I couldn’t blame her for that. She had been a good wife to me, and I had paid her back by becoming a drug addict. I had had my reasons, I figured, but that didn’t change things. If she wanted a divorce, then she was justified. I would always take care of her, I would always love her, and I would always make sure she had a good life. After all, she’d given me two gorgeous children, and she was the one who’d organized all this.

I looked fat-Brad straight in the eye and started nodding slowly. “Let’s get the fuck outta this hellhole.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Indeed.”

CHAPTER 38

MARTIANS OF THE THIRD REICH

T
he place seemed normal enough, at first glance.

The Talbot Marsh Recovery Campus sits on a half dozen immaculately landscaped acres in Atlanta, Georgia. It was only a ten-minute limo ride from the private airport, and I’d spent all six hundred seconds plotting my escape. In fact, before I’d deplaned, I gave the pilots strict instructions not to take off under any circumstances. It was me, after all, not the Duchess, I’d explained, who was paying the bill. Besides, there was a little something extra for them if they stayed awhile. They assured me they would.

So as the limo pulled into the driveway, I scoped out the terrain through the eyes of a prisoner. Meanwhile, fat-Brad and Mike the Glandular Case were sitting across from me, and true to their word there wasn’t a cement wall, a metal bar, a gun tower, or a strand of barbed wire anywhere in sight.

The property gleamed brilliantly in the Georgia sunshine, all these purple and yellow flowers and manicured rosebushes and towering oaks and elms. It was a far cry from the urine-infested corridors of the Delray Medical Center. Yet something seemed a bit off. Perhaps the place was too nice? Was there really that much money in drug rehabs?

There was a circular drop-off area in front of the building. As the limo inched toward it, fat-Brad reached into his pocket and pulled out three twenties. “Here,” he said. “I know you don’t have any money on you, so consider this a gift. It’s cab fare back to the airport. I don’t want you to have to hitchhike. You never know what kind of drug-addicted maniac you’ll run into.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked innocently.

“I saw you whispering in the pilot’s ear,” said fat-Brad. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that if someone’s not ready to get sober, there’s nothing I can do to force him. I won’t insult you with the analogy of leading a horse to water and all that crap. But, either way, I figure I owe you the sixty bucks for making me laugh so hard on the way here.” He shook his head. “You really are one twisted bastard.”

He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Anyway, I’d have to say that this has been the world’s most bizarre intervention. Yesterday I was in California, sitting in some boring convention, when I got this frantic call from the soon-to-be-late Dennis Maynard, who tells me about this gorgeous model who has a zillionaire husband on the verge of killing himself. Believe it or not, I actually balked at first, because of the distance, but then the Duchess of Bay Ridge got on the phone and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Next thing I know we’re on a private jet. And then we met you, which was the biggest trip of all.” He shrugged. “All I can say is that I wish you and your wife the best of luck. I hope you guys stay together. It would be a great ending to the story.”

The Glandular Case nodded in agreement. “You’re a good man, Jordan. Don’t ever forget that. Even if you bolt out the front door in ten minutes and go straight to a crack den, it still doesn’t change who you are. This is a fucked-up disease; it’s cunning and baffling. I walked out of three rehabs myself before I finally got it right. My family ended up finding me under a bridge; I was living as a beggar. And the real sick part is that after they finally got me into rehab, I escaped again and went back to the bridge. That’s the way this disease is.”

I let out a great sigh. “I’m not gonna bullshit you. Even when we were flying here today—and I was busy telling you all those hysterical stories and we were all laughing uncontrollably—I was
still
thinking about drugs. It was burning in the back of my mind like a fucking blast furnace. I’m already thinking about calling my Quaalude dealer as soon as I get out of here. Maybe I can live without the cocaine, but not the Ludes. They’re too much a part of my life now.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” said fat-Brad, nodding. “In fact, I still feel the same way about coke. Not a day goes by when I don’t get the urge to do it. But I’ve managed to stay sober for more than thirteen years. And you know how I do it?”

I smiled. “Yeah, you fat bastard—one day at a time, right?”

“Ah,” said fat-Brad, “now you’re learning! There’s hope for you yet.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “let the healing begin.”

We climbed out of the car and walked down a short concrete path that led to the front entrance. Inside, the place was nothing like I’d imagined. It was gorgeous. It looked like a men’s smoking club, with very plush carpet, rich and reddish, and lots of mahogany and burled walnut and comfortable-looking sofas and love seats and club chairs. There was a large bookcase filled with antique-looking books. Just across from it was an oxblood leather club chair with a very high back. It looked unusually comfortable, so I headed straight for it and plopped myself down.

Ahhhhhh
…how long had it been since I’d sat in a comfortable chair without cocaine and Quaaludes bubbling around inside my brain? I no longer had back pain or leg pain or hip pain or any other pain. There was nothing bothering me, no petty annoyances. I took a deep breath and let it out…. It was a nice, sober breath, part of a nice, sober moment. How long had it been for me? Almost nine years since I’d been sober. Nine fucking years of complete insanity! Holy shit—what a way to live.

And I was fucking starving! I desperately needed to eat something. Anything but Froot Loops.

Fat-Brad walked over to me and said, “Ya doing okay?”

“I’m starving,” I said. “I’d pay a hundred grand for a Big Mac right now.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Mike and I need to fill out a few forms. Then we’ll bring you in and get you something to eat.” He smiled and walked off.

I took another deep breath, except this one I held in for a good ten seconds. I was staring into the very heart of the bookcase when I finally let it out…and just like that, in that very instant, the compulsion left me. I was done. No more drugs. I knew it. Enough was enough. I no longer felt the urge. It was gone. Why, I would never know. All I knew was that I would never touch them again. Something had clicked inside my brain. Some sort of switch had been flipped and I just fucking knew it.

I rose from my chair and walked over to the other side of the waiting room, where fat-Brad and Mike the Glandular Case were filling out paperwork. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the sixty bucks. “Here,” I said to fat-Brad, “you can have your sixty back. I’m staying.”

He smiled and nodded his head knowingly. “Good for you, my friend.”

Right before they left, I said to them, “Don’t forget to call the Duchess of Bay Ridge and tell her to get in touch with the pilots. Or else they’ll be waiting there for weeks.”

“Well, here’s to the Duchess of Bay Ridge!” fat-Brad said, making a mock toast.

“To the Duchess of Bay Ridge!” we all said simultaneously.

Then we exchanged hugs—and promises to keep in touch. But I knew we never would. They had done their job, and it was time for them to move on to the next case. And it was time for me to get sober.

It was the next morning when a new type of insanity started: sober insanity. I woke up around nine a.m., feeling positively buoyant. No withdrawal symptoms, no hangover, and no compulsion to do drugs. I wasn’t in the actual rehab yet; that would come tomorrow. I was still in the detox unit. As I made my way to the cafeteria for breakfast, the only thing weighing on my mind was that I still hadn’t been able to get in touch with the Duchess, who seemed to have flown the coop. I had called the house in Old Brookville and spoken to Gwynne, who’d told me that Nadine had dropped out of sight. She had only called in once, to speak to the kids, and she hadn’t even mentioned my name. So I assumed my marriage was over.

After breakfast I was walking back to my room when a beefy-looking guy sporting a ferocious mullet and the look of the intensely paranoid waved me over. We met by the pay phones. “Hi,” I said, extending my head. “I’m Jordan. How’s it going?”

He shook my hand cautiously. “Shhh!” he said, darting his eyes around. “Follow me.”

I nodded and followed him back into the cafeteria, where we sat down at a square lunch table, out of earshot of other human beings. At this time of morning the cafeteria had only a handful of people in it, and most of them were staff, dressed in white lab coats. I had pegged my new friend as a complete loon. He was dressed like me, in jeans and a T-shirt.

“I’m Anthony,” he said, extending his hand for another shake. “Are you the guy who flew in on the private jet yesterday?”

Oh, Christ! I wanted to remain anonymous for once, not stick out like a sore thumb. “Yeah, that was me,” I said, “but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that quiet. I just want to blend in, okay?”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he muttered, “but good luck trying to keep anything secret in this place.”

That sounded a bit odd, a bit Orwellian, in fact. “Oh, really?” I said. “Why’s that?”

He looked around again. “Because this place is like fucking Auschwitz,” he whispered. Then he winked at me.

At this point, I realized the guy wasn’t completely crazy, perhaps just a bit off. “Why is it like Auschwitz?” I asked, smiling.

He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Because it’s fucking torture here, like a Nazi death camp. You see the staff over there?” He motioned with his head. “They’re the SS. Once the train drops you off in this place, you never leave. And there’s slave labor too.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I thought it was only a four-week program.”

He compressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head. “Maybe it is for you, but not for the rest of us. I assume you’re not a doctor, right?”

“No, I’m a banker—although I’m pretty much retired now.”

“Really?” he asked. “How are you retired? You look like a kid.”

I smiled. “I’m not a kid. But why’d you ask me if I’m a doctor?”

“Because almost everyone here is either a doctor or a nurse. I’m a chiropractor, myself. There are only a handful of people like you. Everyone else is here because they lost their license to practice medicine. So the staff has us by the balls. Unless they say you’re cured, you don’t get your license back. It’s a fucking nightmare. Some people have been here for over a year, and they’re
still
trying to get their license back!” He shook his head gravely. “It’s complete fucking insanity. Everyone’s ratting each other out, trying to earn brownie points with the staff. Really fucking sick. You have no idea. The patients walk around like robots, spewing out AA crap, pretending they’re rehabilitated.”

I nodded, fully getting the picture. A wacky arrangement like this, where the staff had that much power, was a recipe for abuse. Thank God I’d be above it. “What are the female patients like? Any hot ones?”

“Just one,” he answered. “A total knockout. A twelve on a scale from one to ten.”

That perked me up! “Oh, yeah, what’s she look like?”

“She’s a little blonde, about five-five, unbelievable body, perfect face, curly hair. She’s really beautiful. A real piece of ass.”

I nodded, making a mental note to keep away from her. She sounded like trouble. “And what’s the story with this guy Doug Talbot? The staff talks about him like he’s a fucking god. What’s he like?”

“What’s he like?” muttered my paranoid friend. “He’s like Adolf fucking Hitler. Or actually more like Dr. Josef Mengele. He’s a big fucking blowhard, and he’s got every last one of us by the balls—with the exception of you and maybe two other people. But you still gotta be careful, because they’ll try to use your family against you. They’ll get inside your wife’s head and tell her that unless you stay for six months you’re gonna relapse and light your kids on fire.”

Later that night, at about seven p.m., I called Old Brookville in search of the missing Duchess, but she was still MIA. I did get a chance to speak to Gwynne, though; I explained to her that I’d met with my therapist today and I’d been subdiagnosed (whatever that meant) as a compulsive spending addict, as well as a sex addict, both of which were basically true and both of which, I thought, were none of their fucking business. Either way, the therapist had informed me that I was being placed on money restriction and masturbation restriction—allowed to possess only enough money to use in the vending machines and allowed to masturbate only once every few days. I had assumed that the latter restriction was enforced on the honor system.

I asked Gwynne if she could see her way clear to stick a couple a thousand dollars inside some rolled-up socks and then ship them UPS. Hopefully, they would get past the gestapo, I told her, but, either way, it was the least she could do, especially after nine years of being one of my chief enablers. I chose not to share my masturbation restriction with Gwynne, although I had a sneaky suspicion it was going to be an even bigger problem than the money restriction. After all, I had been sober only four days now, and I was already getting spontaneous erections every time the wind blew.

On a much sadder note, before I hung up with Gwynne, Channy came to the phone and said, “Are you in Atlant-ica because you pushed Mommy down the stairs?”

I replied, “That’s one reason, thumbkin. Daddy was very sick and he didn’t know what he was doing.”

“If you’re still sick, can I kiss away your boo-boo again?”

“Hopefully,” I said sadly. “Maybe you can kiss away both our boo-boos, Mommy’s and Daddy’s.” I felt my eyes welling up with tears.

“I’ll try,” she said, with the utmost seriousness.

I bit my lip, fighting back outright crying. “I know you will, baby. I know you will.” Then I told her that I loved her and hung up the phone. Before I went to bed that night I got down on my knees and said a prayer—that Channy could kiss away our boo-boos. Then everything would be okay again.

I woke up the next morning ready to meet the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler, or was it Dr. Josef Mengele? Either way, the entire rehab—patients and staff alike—was getting together this morning in the auditorium for a regularly scheduled group meeting. It was a vast space with no partitions. A hundred twenty bridge chairs had been arranged in a large circle, and at the front of the room was a small platform with a lectern on it, where the speaker of the day would share his tale of drug-addicted woe.