The Wolf of Wall Street (30 page)

It was a perfect segue, I thought, into Duke Securities and then into broaching the possibility of an FBI investigation. Yes, better to allude to the FBI now, to almost
predict
an investigation, as if the Wolf had seen it coming all along and had already prepared himself to fend off the attack.

Once more I held up my hand for quiet. “Listen, everyone—I’m not gonna lie to you here. Settling with the SEC was one of the toughest decisions I’ve ever made. But I knew that Stratton would endure no matter what. See, what makes Stratton so special, what makes it so unstoppable, is that it’s not just a place where people come to work. And it’s not just a business looking to turn a profit. Stratton is an idea! And by the very nature of being an idea it can’t be contained, nor can it be quashed by a two-year investigation at the hands of a bunch of bozo regulators, who froze to death in our conference room and thought nothing of spending millions of taxpayer dollars to embark on one of the biggest witch hunts since the Salem witch trials!

“The very idea of Stratton is that it doesn’t matter what family you were born into, or what schools you went to, or whether or not you were voted most likely to succeed in your high-school yearbook. The idea of Stratton is that when you come here and step into the boardroom for the first time, you start your life anew. The very moment you walk through the door and pledge your loyalty to the firm, you become part of the family, and you become a Strattonite.”

I took a deep breath and pointed in Carrie’s direction. “Now, everybody here knows Carrie Chodosh, right?”

The boardroom responded with hooting and howling and catcalling.

I raised my hand and smiled. “Okay, that was very nice. In case any of you weren’t aware of it, Carrie was one of Stratton’s first brokers, one of the original eight. And when we think of Carrie, we think of her the way she is today—a beautiful woman who drives a brand-new Mercedes; who lives in the finest condo complex on Long Island; who wears three-thousand-dollar Chanel suits and six-thousand-dollar Dolce and Gabbana dresses; who spends her winters vacationing in the Bahamas and her summers in the Hamptons; you know her as someone who has a bank account with God only knows how much in it”—probably nothing, if I had to guess, since that was the Stratton way—“and, of course, everyone knows Carrie as one of the highest-paid female executives on Long Island, on pace to make over $1.5 million this year!”

Then I told them the state of Carrie’s life when she came to Stratton and right on cue, the lovely Carrie responded in a loud, forthright voice: “I’ll always love you, Jordan!” at which point the boardroom went wild once more, and I received my fourth standing ovation.

I bowed my head in thanks, then after a good thirty seconds I asked for quiet. As the last of the Strattonites retook their seats, I said, “Understand that Carrie’s back was to the wall; she had a small child to worry about and a mountain of bills crashing down on her. She couldn’t allow herself to fail! Her son, Scott, who happens to be an incredible kid, will soon be attending one of the finest colleges in the country. And thanks to his mother, he won’t have to graduate owing a couple a hundred grand in student loans and then be forced to—”
Oh, shit!
Carrie was crying! I’d done it again! The second time in one day I’d brought a woman to tears! Where was the Duchess?

Carrie was crying so loudly that three sales assistants had surrounded her. I needed to hit my final points quickly and then end this farewell speech before someone else started crying. “Okay,” I said. “We all love Carrie, and we don’t want to see her cry.”

Carrie held up her hand and said, through gooselike snorts, “I’m—I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” I replied, wondering what the appropriate response was to a crying female Strattonite during a farewell speech. Did such a protocol even exist? “The point I was trying to make was that if you think the opportunity for quick advancement doesn’t exist anymore—that because Stratton is so big and so well-managed that your path to the top is somehow blocked—well, in the history of Stratton there’s never been a riper time for someone to rise through the ranks and go straight to the top. And that, my friends, is a fact!

“The simple fact is, now that I’m leaving, there’s a huge void Danny needs to fill. And where’s he gonna fill it from? From the outside? From somewhere on Wall Street? No, of course not! Stratton promotes from within. It always has! So whether you just walked in the door, or if you’ve been here for a few months and just passed your Series Seven, or if you’ve been here for a year and just made your first million, then today is your lucky day. As Stratton continues to grow, there’ll be other regulatory hurdles. And just like the SEC…we’ll overcome those too. Who knows? Maybe the next time it’ll be the NASD…or the states…or maybe even the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Who can say for sure? After all, virtually every big Wall Street firm goes through that once. But all you need to know is that at the end of the day Stratton will endure and that from out of adversity comes opportunity. Maybe next time it’ll be Danny who’s standing up here, and he’ll be passing the torch to one of you.”

I paused to let my words sink in, and then began my close. “So good luck, everyone, and continued success. I ask you for only one favor: that you follow Danny the way you followed me. Pledge your loyalty to him the way you did to me. As of this very moment, Danny is in charge. Good luck, Danny, and Godspeed! I know you’ll take things to a new level.” And with that, I lifted the mike in the air in salute to Danny and received the standing ovation of a lifetime.

After the mob finally settled down, I was presented with a going-away card. It was three feet by six feet, and on one side, in big red block letters, it read,
To the World’s Greatest Boss!
On either side were handwritten notes—brief accolades from each of my Strattonites—thanking me for changing their lives so dramatically.

Later, after I went inside my office and closed the door for the last time, I couldn’t help but wonder if they would still be thanking me five years from now.

CHAPTER 25

REAL REALS

H
ow many reruns of
Gilligan’s Island
can one man watch before he decides to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger?

It was a frigid Wednesday morning, and in spite of it being eleven a.m., I was still lying in bed, watching television. Forced retirement, I thought—it ain’t no fucking picnic.

I’d been watching a considerable amount of TV over the last four weeks—too much, according to the doleful Duchess—and, as of late, I had become obsessed with
Gilligan’s Island.

There was a reason for that: While watching
Gilligan’s Island
reruns, I made the shocking discovery that I was not the only Wolf of Wall Street. Much to my chagrin, there was someone sharing this not-so-honorable distinction with me, and he happened to be a bumbling old WASP who’d been unlucky enough to get himself shipwrecked on Gilligan’s Island. His name was Thurston Howell III, and, alas, he truly
was
an idiot WASP. In typical WASP fashion he’d married a female of his species, an atrocious pineapple blond named Lovey, who was almost as great an idiot as he but not quite. Lovey felt it necessary to wear wool pantsuits, sequined ball gowns, and a full face of makeup, despite the fact that Gilligan’s Island was somewhere in the South Pacific, at least five hundred miles from the nearest shipping lane where she would ever be seen by anyone. But WASPs are notorious overdressers.

I found myself wondering if it was only by sheer coincidence that the original Wolf of Wall Street was a bumbling moron or if my nickname was
meant
to be a slight—comparing Jordan Belfort to an old WASP bastard with an IQ of sixty-five and a penchant for bed-wetting. Perhaps, I thought glumly, perhaps.

It was all very sad, and very depressing too. On a brighter note, I had been spending a great deal of time with Chandler, who had just started talking. It was crystal clear now that my early suspicions had been confirmed, and my daughter was a certifiable genius. I found myself resisting the urge to regard my daughter from a physical perspective—knowing full well that I could and would cherish every last molecule of her no matter how she looked. But the fact remained that she was absolutely gorgeous and looking more and more like her mother with each passing day. Likewise, I found myself falling more deeply in love with her as I watched her personality unfold. She was a daddy’s girl, and seldom a day went by when I didn’t spend at least three or four hours with her, teaching her new words.

There were powerful feelings blossoming inside me, feelings I was entirely unfamiliar with. For better or worse, I came to the realization that I had never loved another human being unconditionally—including my wives and my parents. It was only now, since Chandler, that I finally understood the true meaning of the word
love.
For the first time, I understood why my parents had felt my pain—literally suffering alongside me—especially during my teenage years, when I’d seemed determined to waste my gifts. I finally understood where my mother’s tears had come from, and I now knew that, I, too, would shed those very tears if my daughter were to end up doing what I had done. I felt guilty over all the pain I had caused my parents, knowing that it must have cut to their very cores. It was about unconditional love, wasn’t it? It was the purest love of all, and up until now I had only been on the receiving end of it.

None of this diminished my feelings for the Duchess. Instead, it made me wonder if I could ever get to such a place with her, to that very level of comfort and trust where I could let my guard down and love her unconditionally. Perhaps if we had another child together, I thought. Or perhaps if we grew old together—truly old—and we both passed that point where the physical body dictates so much. Maybe then I would finally trust her.

As the days passed, I found myself looking to Chandler for a sense of peace, for a sense of stability, and for a sense of purpose in my life. The thought of going to jail and being separated from her was something that rested at the base of my skull like a deadweight, which would not be lifted until Agent Coleman had finished his investigation and found nothing. Only then would I rest easy. I was still waiting to hear back from Bo as to what intelligence he’d gathered from Special Agent Barsini, but he was having trouble nailing Barsini down.

And then there was the Duchess. Things had been going remarkably well with her. In fact, now that I had extra time on my hands, I was finding it much easier to hide my mushrooming drug habit from her. I had this wonderful program worked out where I would wake up at five in the morning, two hours before her, and drop my morning Ludes in peace. Then I would go through all four phases of my high—tingle, slur, drool, loss of consciousness—before she’d even wake up. Upon awakening, I would watch a few episodes of
Gilligan’s Island
or
I Dream of Jeannie,
then spend an hour or so playing with Chandler. At noon, I would meet Danny for lunch at Tenjin, where we could be seen by all the Strattonites.

After the market closed, Danny and I would meet again, at which point we would drop Ludes together. This would be my second high of the day. I’d usually arrive home around sevenish—after I was well past the drool phase—and have dinner with the Duchess and Chandler. And while I was certain the Duchess knew what I was up to, she seemed to be turning a blind eye to things—thankful, perhaps, that I was at least making an effort not to drool in her presence, which, above all things, enraged her.

Just then, I heard the phone
beep.
“Are you awake yet?” asked Janet’s obnoxious voice over the intercom.

“It’s eleven o’clock, Janet. Of course I’m awake!”

“Well, you haven’t surfaced yet, so how am I supposed to know?”

Unbelievable! She
still
showed me no respect, even now that she worked out of my house. It was as if she and the Duchess were constantly ganging up on me, poking fun at me. Oh, they pretended it was all in jest, all out of love, but it was all very raw.

And what grounds did those two women have for making fun of me? Seriously! In spite of the fact that I was barred from the securities industry, I’d still managed to earn $4 million in the month of February; and, this month, although it was only March 3, I’d already made another million. So it wasn’t like I was some worthless sea slug, just lying in bed all day, doing nothing.

And what the fuck did the two of them do all day, huh?
Janet spent most of her day doting on Chandler and bullshitting with Gwynne. Nadine spent her days riding those stupid horses of hers, then walking around the house dressed in an English riding ensemble of light-green stretch riding pants, a matching cotton turtleneck, and gleaming black leather riding boots that rose up to her kneecaps, as she sneezed and wheezed and coughed and itched from her intractable horse allergies. The only person in the house who truly understood me was Chandler, and maybe Gwynne, the latter of whom would serve me breakfast in bed and offer me Quaaludes for my back pain.

I said to Janet, “Well, I’m awake, so cool your fucking jets. I’m watching the Financial News Network.”

Janet, the skeptic: “Oh, really? Me too. What’s the guy saying?”

“Fuck off, Janet. What do you want?”

“Alan Chemtob is on the phone; he says it’s important.”

Alan Chemtob, aka Alan Chemical-tob, my trusted Quaalude dealer, was a real pain in the ass. It wasn’t enough just to pay this societal leech fifty dollars a Quaalude and let him be on his way. Oh, no! This particular drug dealer wanted to be liked or loved or whatever the fuck he wanted. I mean, this fat bastard gave new meaning to the phrase
your friendly neighborhood drug dealer.
Still, he did happen to have the best Ludes in town: a relative statement in the world of Quaalude addiction, with the best Ludes coming from those countries where legitimate drug companies were still allowed to manufacture them.

Yes, it was a sad story. As was the case with most recreational drugs, Quaaludes had once been legal in the United States but were subsequently outlawed after it came to the DEA’s attention that, for every legitimate prescription being written, there were a hundred bogus ones. Now there were only two countries in the world manufacturing Quaaludes: Spain and Germany. And, in both those countries, controls were so strict it was nearly impossible to get any meaningful supply…

…which was why my heart started beating like a rabbit’s when I picked up the phone and Alan Chemical-tob said, “You won’t believe this, Jordan, but I found a retired pharmacist who has twenty real Lemmons that’ve been locked inside his safe for almost fifteen years. I’ve been trying to pry them out of him for five years, but he’d never let them go. Now he’s gotta pay his kid’s college tuition, and he’s willing to sell them for five hundred dollars a pill, so I thought you might be inter—”

“Of course I’m interested!” I resisted the urge to call him a fucking moron for even questioning my interest. After all, there were Quaaludes and there were
Quaaludes.
Each company’s brand was of a slightly different formulation and, likewise, a slightly different potency. And no one had ever gotten it
more right
than the geniuses over at Lemmon Pharmaceuticals, which had marketed its Quaaludes under the brand name Lemmon 714. Lemmons, as they were called, were legendary, not only for their strength but for their ability to turn Catholic-school virgins into blow-job queens. In consequence, they had earned the nickname
leg openers.
“I’ll take ’em all!” I snapped. “In fact, tell the guy if he’ll sell me forty I’ll give him a thousand bucks a pill, and if he’ll sell me a hundred I’ll make it fifteen hundred. That’s a hundred fifty thousand dollars, Alan.” Good God, I thought, the Wolf was a rich man! Real Lemmons! Palladins were considered real Ludes, because they were manufactured by a legitimate drug company in Spain, so if Palladins were Reals, then Lemmons were…
Real Reals!

Chemical-tob replied, “He only has twenty.”

“Shit! Are you sure? You’re not glomming any for yourself, are you?”

“Of course not,” replied Chemical-tob. “I consider you a friend, and I would never do that to a friend, right?”

What a fucking loser, I thought. But my response was slightly different: “I couldn’t agree with you more, my friend. When can you be here?”

“The guy won’t be home ’til four. I can be in Old Brookville around five.” Then he added, “But make sure you don’t eat.”

“Oh, please, Chemical-tob! I resent the fact that you’d even suggest that.” With that, I bid him safe passage. Then I hung up the phone and rolled around on my $12,000 white silk comforter like a kid who’d just won a shopping spree at FAO Schwarz.

I went to the bathroom and opened up the medicine cabinet and took out a box labeled
Fleet Enema
. I ripped it open, then pulled my boxers down to my kneecaps and rammed the bottle’s pointed nozzle up my asshole with such ferocity that I felt it scrape the top of my sigmoid colon. Three minutes later, the entire contents of my lower digestive tract came pouring out. Deep down I was pretty sure that this wouldn’t increase the intensity of my high, but, nonetheless, it still seemed like a prudent measure. Then I stuck my finger down my throat and vomited up the last of this morning’s breakfast.

Yes, I thought, I had done what any sensible man would do under such extraordinary circumstances, perhaps with the exception of giving myself the enema before I’d made myself vomit. But I had washed my hands thoroughly with scalding hot water, so I redeemed myself for that tiny faux pax.

Then I called Danny and urged him to do the same, which, of course, he did.

At five p.m., Danny and I were playing pool in my basement, waiting impatiently for Alan Chemical-tob. The game was eight ball, and Danny had been kicking my ass for almost thirty minutes. As the balls clicked and clacked, Danny bashed the Chinaman: “I’m a hundred percent sure the stock is coming from the Chinaman. No one else has that much.”

The stock Danny was referring to was Stratton’s most recent new issue, M. H. Meyerson. The problem was that as part of my quid pro quo with Kenny, I had agreed to give Victor large blocks of it. Of course, the stock had been given with the explicit instructions that he wasn’t to sell it back—and, of course, Victor had completely disregarded those instructions and was now selling back every share. The truly frustrating part was that by the very nature of the NASDAQ stock market, it was impossible to prove this transgression. It was all supposition.

Nevertheless, by process of elimination it wasn’t too difficult to put two and two together: The Chinaman was fucking us. “Why do you seem so surprised?” I asked cynically. “The Chinaman’s a depraved maniac. He’d sell the stock back even if he didn’t have to, just to spite us. Anyway, now you see why I told you to stay short an extra hundred thousand shares. He’s sold all he can sell, and you’re still in perfect shape.”

Danny nodded glumly.

I smiled and said, “Don’t worry, buddy. How much of that other stock have you sold him so far?”

“About a million shares.”

“Good. When you get to a million-five, I’m gonna turn the Chinaman’s lights out, and—”

I was interrupted by the doorbell. Danny and I turned to each other and froze in place, our mouths agape. A few moments later, Alan Chemical-tob came thumping down the basement stairs and started in with the personal crap, asking, “How’s Chandler doing?”

Oh, Jesus! I thought. Why couldn’t he just be like any other drug dealer and hang out on street corners and sell drugs to schoolchildren? Why did he feel the need to be liked? “Oh, she’s doing great,” I replied warmly,
and can you hand over the fucking Lemmons
? “How are Marsha and the kids?”

“Oh, Marsha’s Marsha,” he replied, grinding his jaw like the true coke fiend that he was, “but the kids are doing fine.” He did some more jaw-grinding. “You know, I’d really love to open up an account for the kids, if that’s okay. Maybe a college fund or something?”