The Wolf of Wall Street (13 page)

“Uh-huh,” I replied, in the tone of the unimpressed. “And if I don’t give it to him?”

The Blockhead let out a great blockheaded sigh. “What do you have against Victor? He’s already pledged his loyalty to you a thousand times over. And he’ll do it again—right now—in front of all three of us. I’m telling you—next to you, Victor’s the sharpest guy I know. We’ll make a fortune off him. I swear! He’s already found a broker dealer he could buy for next to nothing. It’s called Duke Securities. I think you should give him the money. All he needs is half a million—that’s it.”

I shook my head in disgust. “Save your pleas for when you really need them, Kenny. Anyway, now is not the time to be discussing the future of Duke Securities. I think this is slightly more important, don’t you?” I motioned to the front of the boardroom, where a bunch of sales assistants were setting up a mock barbershop.

Kenny cocked his head to the side and looked over at the barbershop with a confused look on his face, but he said nothing.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Listen, there are things about Victor that trouble me. And that shouldn’t be news to you—unless, of course, you’ve had your head up your ass for the last five years!” I started chuckling. “You don’t seem to get it, Kenny, you really don’t. You don’t see that with all Victor’s plotting and planning he’s gonna Sun Tzu himself to death. And all his face-saving bullshit—I haven’t got the time or inclination to deal with it. I swear to fucking God!

“Anyway, get this through your head: Victor—will—never—be—loyal.
Ever!
Not to you, not to me, and not to himself. He’ll cut off his own Chinese nose to spite his own Chinese face in the name of winning some imaginary war he’s fighting against no one but himself. You got it?” I smiled cynically.

I paused and softened my tone. “Anyway, listen for a second: You know how much I love you, Kenny. And you also know how much I respect you.” I fought the urge to chuckle with those last few words. “And because of those two things, I will sit down with Victor and try to placate him. But I’m not doing it because of Victor fucking Wang, who I detest. I’m doing it because of Kenny Greene, who I love. On a separate note, he can’t just walk away from Judicate. Not yet, at least. I’m counting on you to make sure he stays until I do what I need to do.”

The Blockhead nodded. “No problem,” he said happily. “Victor listens to me. I mean, if you only knew how…”

The Blockhead started spewing out blockheaded nonsense, but I immediately tuned out. In fact, by the look in his eyes, I knew he hadn’t grasped my meaning at all. In point of fact—it was I, not Victor, who had the most to lose if Judicate went belly up. I was the largest shareholder, owning a bit more than three million shares, while Victor held only stock options, which were worthless at the current stock price of two dollars. Still, as an owner of
stock,
my stake was worth $6 million—although the two-dollar share price was misleading. After all the company was performing so poorly that you couldn’t actually sell the stock without driving the price down into the pennies.

Unless, of course, you had an army of Strattonites.

Yet there was one hitch to this exit strategy—namely, that my stock wasn’t eligible for sale yet. I had bought my shares directly from Judicate under SEC Rule 144, which meant there was a two-year holding period before I could legally resell it. I was only one month shy of the two-year mark, so all I needed was Victor to keep things afloat a tiny bit longer. But this seemingly simple task was proving to be far more difficult than I’d anticipated. The company was bleeding cash like a hemophiliac in a rosebush.

In fact, now that Victor’s options were worthless, his sole compensation was a salary of $100,000 a year, which was a paltry sum compared to what his peers were making upstairs. And unlike the Blockhead, Victor was no fool; he was keenly aware that I would use the power of the boardroom to sell my shares as soon as they became eligible, and he was also aware that he could get left behind after they were sold—reduced to nothing more than the chairman of a worthless public company.

He had intimated this concern to me via the Blockhead, who he’d been using as a puppet since junior high school. And I had explained to Victor, more than once, that I had no intention of leaving him behind, that I would make him whole no matter what—even if it meant making him money as my rathole.

But the Depraved Chinaman couldn’t be convinced of that, not for more than a few hours at a time. It was as if my words went in one ear and out the other. The simple fact was that he was a paranoid son of a bitch. He had grown up an oversize Chinaman amid a ferocious tribe of savage Jews. In consequence, he suffered from a massive inferiority complex. He now resented all savage Jews, especially me, the most savage Jew of all. To date, I had outsmarted him, outwitted him, and outmaneuvered him.

It was out of his very ego, in fact, that Victor hadn’t become a Strattonite in the early days. So he went to Judicate instead. It was his way of breaking into the inner circle, a way to save face for not making the right decision back in 1988, when the rest of his friends had sworn loyalty to me and had become the first Strattonites. In Victor’s mind, Judicate was merely a way station to insinuate himself back into the queue, so that one day I would tap him on the shoulder and say, “Vic, I want you to open up your own brokerage firm, and here’s the money and expertise to do it.”

It was what every Strattonite dreamed of and something I touched upon in all my meetings—that if you continued to work hard and stay loyal, one day I’d tap you on the shoulder and set you up in business.

And then you would get truly rich.

I had done this twice so far: once with Alan Lipsky, my oldest and most trusted friend, who now owned Monroe Parker Securities; and a second time, with Elliot Loewenstern, another long-time friend, who now owned Biltmore Securities. Elliot had been my partner back in my ice-hustling days. During the summer, the two of us would go down to the local beach and hustle Italian ices blanket-to-blanket, and make a fortune. We would scream out our sales pitch as we carried around forty-pound Styrofoam coolers, running from the cops when they chased after us. And while our friends were either goofing off or working menial jobs for $3.50 an hour, we were earning $400 a day. Each summer we would each save twenty thousand dollars and use it during the winter months to pay our way through college.

In any event, both firms—Biltmore and Monroe Parker—were doing phenomenally well, earning tens of millions a year, and they were each paying me a hidden royalty of $5 million a year just for setting them up.

It was a hefty sum, $5 million, and in truth it had little to do with setting them up. In point of fact, they paid me out of loyalty, and out of respect. And at the very crux of it, what held it all together was the fact that they still considered themselves Strattonites. And I considered them such too.

So there it was. As the Blockhead stood in front of me, still rambling on about how loyal the Chinaman would be, I knew otherwise. How could someone who harbored a deep-seated resentment toward all savage Jews ever stay loyal to the Wolf of Wall Street? He was a man of grudges, Victor, a man who held every last Strattonite in contempt.

It was clear: There was no logical reason to back the Depraved Chinaman, which led to another problem—namely, that there was no way to stop him. All I could do was delay him. And if I delayed too long, I ran the risk of him doing it without me—without my blessing, so to speak, which would set a dangerous precedent to the rest of the Strattonites, especially if he succeeded.

It was sad and ironic, I thought, how my power was nothing more than an illusion, how it would vanish quickly if I didn’t think ten steps ahead. I had no choice but to torture myself over every decision, to read infinite detail into everyone’s motives. I felt like a twisted game theorist, who spent the better part of his day lost in thought—considering all the moves and countermoves and outcomes thereof. It was emotionally taxing, my life, and after five long years it seemed to be getting the best of me. In fact, the only time my mind was quiet now was when I was either high as a kite or inside the luscious loins of the luscious Duchess.

Nevertheless, the Depraved Chinaman couldn’t be ignored. To start a brokerage firm required a minuscule amount of capital, perhaps half a million at most, which was peanuts compared to what he’d make in the first few months alone. The Blockhead himself could finance the Chinaman, if he so desired, although that would be an overt act of war—if I could ever prove it, which would be difficult.

In reality, the only thing holding Victor back was his lack of confidence—or his simple unwillingness to put his enormous Chinese ego and his tiny Chinese balls on the line. He wanted assurances, the Chinaman; he wanted direction, and emotional support, and protection against short-sellers—and, most importantly, he wanted large blocks of Stratton new issues, which were Wall Street’s hottest.

He would want all these things until he could figure them out on his own.

Then he would want no more.

That would take six months, I figured, at which point he would turn on me. He would sell back all the stock I’d given him, which would put unnecessary pressure on the Strattonites, who would be forced to buy it. Ultimately, his selling would drive the stocks down, which would lead to customer complaints and, most importantly, a boardroom full of unhappy Strattonites. He would then prey upon that unhappiness—using it to try to steal my Strattonites. He would accompany it with a false promise of a better life at Duke Securities. Yes, I thought, there was something to be said for being small and nimble, as he would be. It would be difficult to defend against such an attack. I was the lumbering giant, vulnerable at the periphery.

So the answer was to deal with the Chinaman from a position of strength. I was big, all right, and despite being vulnerable at the periphery I was tough as nails at the center. So it would be from the very center that I’d strike. I would agree to back Victor, and I would lull him into a false sense of security, then, when he least expected it, I would unleash a first strike against him of such ferocity that it would leave him destitute.

First thing first: I would ask the Chinaman to wait three months to give me enough time to unload my Judicate shares. The Chinaman would understand that and suspect nothing. Meanwhile, I would approach the Blockhead and squeeze some concessions out of him. After all, as a twenty percent partner of Stratton, he stood in the way of other Strattonites who wanted a piece of the pie.

And once I put Victor into business, I would bring him to the point where he was making decent money but not too much money. I would then advise him to trade in such a manner that would leave him subtly exposed. And there were ways to do that that only the most sophisticated traders would pick up on, ways that Victor certainly would not. I would play right into that giant Chinese ego of his—advising him to maintain large positions in his proprietary trading account. And when he least expected it, when he was at his most vulnerable point, I would turn on him with all my power and attack. I would drive the Depraved Chinaman right the fuck out of business. I would sell stock through names and places that Victor never heard of, names that could never be traced back to me, names that would leave him scratching his panda-size head. I would unleash a barrage of selling that was so fast and so furious that, before he knew what even hit him, he would be out of business—and out of my hair forever.

Of course, the Blockhead would lose some money in the process, but at the end of the day he would still be a wealthy man. I would chalk that one up to collateral damage.

I smiled at the Blockhead. “Like I said, I’ll meet with Victor out of respect to you. But I can’t do it until next week. So let’s do it in Atlantic City, when we settle up with our ratholes. I assume Victor’s going, right?”

The Blockhead nodded. “He’ll be anywhere you want him to be.”

I nodded. “Between now and then you better straighten the Chinaman’s head out. I’m not gonna be pressured into doing this before I’m good and ready. And that won’t be until after I’ve blown out of Judicate. You got it?”

He nodded proudly. “As long as he knows you’ll back him, he’ll wait as long as you want.”

As long as?
What a fool the Blockhead was! Was it just my imagination or had he proved yet again how clueless he was? By uttering those very words, he confirmed what I’d already known—that the Depraved Chinaman’s allegiance was
subject to.

Yes, today the Blockhead was loyal; he was still Stratton through and through. But no man can serve two masters for long, and certainly not forever. And that was what the Depraved Chinaman was: another Master. He was waiting in the wings, manipulating the Blockhead’s feeble mind as he sowed seeds of dissension within my very ranks, starting with my own junior partner.

There was a war brewing here. It was looming just over the horizon—heading for my doorstep in the not-too-distant future. And it was a war I would win.

BOOK II

CHAPTER 11

THE LAND OF RATHOLES

August 1993
(Four Months Earlier)

W
here the fuck am I, for Chrissake?

Such was the first question that popped into my mind as I woke up to the unmistakable screech of landing gear being lowered from out of the enormous belly of a jumbo jetliner. Slowly regaining consciousness, I looked at the red and blue emblem on the seat back in front of me and tried to make sense of it all.

Apparently, the jumbo jetliner was a Boeing 747; my seat number was 2A, a window seat in first class, and at this particular moment, although my eyes were open, my chin was still tucked between my collarbones in sleep mode, and my head felt like it had been smacked by a pharmaceutical nightstick.

A hangover? I thought. From Quaaludes? That made no sense!

Still confused, I craned my neck and looked out the small oval window on my left and tried to get my bearings. The sun was just over the horizon—
morning!
An important clue! My spirits lifted. I panned my head and took in the view: rolling green mountains, a small gleaming city, a huge turquoise lake in the shape of a crescent, an enormous jet of water shooting up hundreds of feet in the air—
breathtaking!

Wait a minute. What the fuck was I doing on a commercial plane? So tawdry it was! Where was my Gulfstream? How long had I been asleep? And how many Quaaludes—
Oh, Christ! The Restorils!

A cloud of despair began rising up my brain stem. I had disregarded my doctor’s warning and mixed Restorils with Quaaludes, both of which were sleeping pills but from two competing classes. Taken separately, the results were predictable—six to eight hours of deep sleep. Taken together, the results were—what were the results?

I took a deep breath and fought down the negativity. Then it hit me—my plane was landing in Switzerland. Everything would end up fine! It was friendly territory! Neutral territory! Swiss territory! Full of things Swiss—velvety milk chocolate, deposed dictators, fine watches, hidden Nazi gold, numbered bank accounts, laundered money, bank secrecy laws, Swiss francs, Swiss Quaaludes! What a fabulous little country this was! And gorgeous from the air! Not a skyscraper in sight and thousands of tiny homes dotting the countryside in storybook fashion. And that geyser—unbelievable! Switzerland! They even had their own brand of Quaaludes, for Chrissake! Methasedils they were called, if memory served me correctly. I made a quick mental note to speak to the concierge about that.

Anyway, you had to love the Swiss—despite the fact that half the country was full of Frogs and the other half was full of Krauts. It was the end result of centuries of warfare and political backstabbing; the country had literally been divided in two, with the city of Geneva being Frog Central, where they spoke French, and the city of Zurich being Kraut Central, where they spoke German.

Insofar as my own humble Jewish opinion went, the Geneva-based Frogs were the ones to do business with—as opposed to the Zurich-based Krauts, who passed their time speaking disgusting glottal German while binge-drinking piss-warm beer and eating Wiener schnitzel until their stomachs bulged out like female kangaroos after a birthing cycle. And, besides, it didn’t take any great leap of logic to realize that there had to be a few Nazi bastards still hiding out among the populace, living off the gold fillings they’d forcibly extracted from my ancestors before they gassed them to death!

Anyway, there was an added benefit to doing business in French-speaking Geneva—namely, the women. Oh, yes! Unlike your average Zurich-based German woman, who was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested enough to play for the NFL, the average French woman—who roamed the streets of Geneva with shopping bags and poodles—was slender and gorgeous, in spite of her hairy armpits. With that thought, my smile broke through the surface; after all, my destination was none other than Geneva.

I turned from the window and looked to my right, and there was Danny Porush—sleeping. He had his mouth open, in fly-catching mode, while those enormous white teeth of his blazed away in the morning sunlight. On his left wrist he wore a thick gold Rolex watch with enough diamonds on the face to power an industrial laser. The gold gleamed and the diamonds twinkled, but neither was a match for his teeth, which were brighter than a supernova. He had on his ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses, the ones with the clear lenses in them. Unbelievable! Still a Jewish WASP—even on an international flight.

Seated just to his right was the trip’s organizer, self-proclaimed Swiss-banking expert Gary Kaminsky, who also happened to be the (slippery) Chief Financial Officer of Dollar Time Group, a publicly traded company of which I was the largest shareholder. Like Danny, Gary Kaminsky was sleeping. He wore a ridiculous salt-and-pepper toupee that was an entirely different color than his sideburns, which were ink black—apparently dyed that way by a colorist with a good sense of humor. Out of morbid curiosity (and habit), I took a moment to study his awful toupee. Probably a Sy Sperling special, if I had to take a guess; the good-old Hair Club for Men!

Just then, the stewardess walked by—ah, Franca!
What a hot little Swiss number! So perky!
She was gorgeous, especially the way her blond hair fell on that creamy white blouse with its high-necked collar. Such repressed sexuality! And that sexy pair of gold pilot’s wings she had pinned on her left jug—a
stewardess!
What a terrific breed of woman! Especially this one, with her tight red skirt and those silky black panty hose, such a wonderful swooshing sound they made as she passed by! Cut right through the landing gear and everything!

In fact, last I could recall I was striking up quite a rap with Franca, while we were still on the ground at Kennedy Airport in New York. She liked me. Perhaps there was still a chance. Tonight! Switzerland! Franca and me! How could I ever get caught in a country where mum’s the word? With a great smile and in a tone loud enough to cut through the mighty roar of the jet’s Pratt & Whitney engines, I said, “Franca, my love! Come here. Could I talk to you for a second?”

Franca turned on her heel and struck a pose, with her arms folded beneath her breasts, her shoulders thrown back, her back slightly arched, and her hips cocked in a display of contempt. That look she gave me! Those narrowed eyes…that clenched jaw…that scrunched-up nose…absolutely poisonous!

Well, that was a bit uncalled for. Why, the—

Before I could even finish my thought, the lovely Franca spun on her heel and walked away.

What happened to Swiss hospitality, for Chrissake? I had been told that all Swiss women were sluts. Or were those Swedish women?
Hmmm
…yes, on second thought it was Swedish women who were the sluts. Still—that didn’t give Franca the right to ignore me! I was a paying customer of Swissair, for crying out loud, and my ticket cost…well, it must’ve cost a fortune. And what had I gotten in return? A wider seat and a better meal? I had slept through the fucking meal!

All at once I felt the uncontrollable urge to urinate. I looked up at the seat-belt sign.
Shit!
It was already illuminated, but I couldn’t hold it in. I had a notoriously small bladder (drove the Duchess crazy), and I must’ve been asleep for a good seven hours. Oh, fuck it! What could they do to me if I got up? Arrest me for going to take a piss? I tried getting up—but I couldn’t.

I looked down. There wasn’t one but—Christ almighty!—there were four seat belts on me. I had been tied down! Ah
…
a practical joke! I turned my head to the right. “Porush,” I snapped loudly, “wake up and untie me, you asshole!”

No response. He just sat there with his head back and his mouth open, a gob of drool glistening in the morning sunlight.

Again, but louder this time: “Danny! Wake up, God damn it!
Pooorussshhhhh!
Wake up, you piece o’ shit, and untie me!”

Still nothing. I took a deep breath and slowly tilted my head back, then with a mighty thrust forward I head-butted him in the shoulder.

A second later Danny’s eyes popped open and his mouth snapped shut. He shook his head and looked at me through those ridiculous clear lenses. “What—what’s wrong? Whaddidya do now?”

“Whaddaya mean, whaddid I do now? Untie me—you piece o’ shit—before I rip those stupid glasses off your fucking head!”

With half a smile: “I can’t, or else they’re gonna Taser you!”

“What?”
I said, confused. “What are you talking about? Who’s gonna Taser me?”

Danny took a deep breath and said in hushed tones, “Listen to me: We got some problems here. You went after Franca”—he motioned his chin in the direction of the shimmering blond stewardess—“somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. They almost turned the plane around, but I convinced them to tie you up instead and I promised that I’d keep you in your seat. But the Swiss police might be waiting at Customs. I think they plan on arresting you.”

I took a moment to search my short-term memory. I had none. With a sinking heart, I said, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Danny. I don’t remember anything. What did I do?”

Danny shrugged. “You were grabbing her tits and trying to stick your tongue down her throat. Nothing so terrible if we were in a different situation, but up here in the air…well, there’s different rules than back at the office. What really sucks, though, is that I think she actually liked you!” He shook his head and compressed his lips, as if to say, “You let a fine piece of pussy get away, Jordan!” Then he said, “But then you tried to lift up her little red skirt and she got offended.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I tried, but you started going wild on me. What did you take?”

“Uhhhhh…I don’t know for sure,” I muttered. “I think maybe…uh, maybe three or four Ludes…and then…three of those little blue Restorils…and, uh…ummm—I don’t know—maybe a Xanax or two…and, maybe some morphine for my back. But the morphine and the Restoril were prescribed by a doctor, so it’s really not my fault.” I held on to that comforting thought as long as I could. But slowly the reality was sinking in. I leaned back in my comfortable first-class seat and tried to draw some power from it. Then all at once, panic: “Oh, shit—the Duchess! What if the Duchess finds out about this? I’m really screwed, Danny! What am I gonna say to her? If this hits the papers—oh, God, she’ll crucify me! All the apologies in the world won’t—” I couldn’t bear to finish the thought. I paused for a brief second, until a second wave of panic overtook me. “Oh, Jesus—the government! The whole reason for flying commercial was to be incognito! And now…an arrest in a foreign country! Oh, Christ! I’m gonna kill Dr. Edelson for giving me those pills! He knows I take Ludes”—desperately I looked for a doorstep to lay the blame at—“yet he still prescribed me sleeping pills! Christ, he’d prescribe me heroin for a fucking splinter if I fucking asked him to! What a fucking nightmare, Danny! What could be worse? An arrest in Switzerland—the money-laundering capital of the world! And we haven’t even laundered any money yet, and we’re already in trouble!” I started shaking my head gravely. “It’s a bad omen, Danny.

“Untie me,” I said. “I won’t get up.” All at once, a flash of inspiration: “Maybe I should go apologize to Franca, smooth things out with her? How much cash you have on you?”

Danny began untying me. “I have twenty grand, but I don’t think you should try talking to her. It’ll only make things worse. I’m pretty sure you got your hand in her underwear. Here, let me smell your fingers!”

“Shut up, Porush! Stop fucking around and keep untying me.”

Danny smiled. “Anyway, give me the rest of your Ludes to hold on to. Let me take them through Customs for you.”

I nodded and said a silent prayer that the Swiss government wouldn’t want any bad publicity to tarnish their reputation for discretion. Like a dog with a bone I held on to that thought for dear life, as we slowly made our descent into Geneva.

With my hat in my hand and my butt in a steel-gray chair, I said to the three Customs officials seated across from me, “I’m telling you, I don’t remember anything. I get very bad anxiety when I fly, and that’s why I took all those pills.” I pointed to the two vials resting on the gray metal desk between us. Thankfully, both vials contained my name on the label; under my present circumstances, this seemed to be the most important thing. As far as my Quaaludes were concerned, at this particular moment they were safely tucked away up Danny’s descending colon, which, I assumed, had passed safely through Customs by now.

The three Swiss Customs officials started jabbering away in some off-the-wall French dialect. They sounded like their mouths were full of rotten Swiss cheese. It was amazing—even as they spoke at near light speed, they somehow managed to keep their lips tight as snare drums and their jaws locked firmly into place.

I began scoping out the room.
Was I in jail?
There was no way to tell with the Swiss. Their faces were expressionless, as if they were mindless automatons going about their lives with the mundane precision of a Swiss clock, and all the while the room screamed out, “You have now entered the fucking Twilight Zone!” There were no windows…no pictures…no clocks…no telephones…no pencils…no pens…no paper…no lamps…no computers. There was nothing but four steel-gray chairs, a matching steel-gray desk, and a wilted fucking geranium, dying a slow death.

Christ! Should I demand to speak to the U.S. embassy?
No—you fool!
I was probably on some sort of watch list. I had to stay incognito. That was the goal—incognito.

I looked at the three officials. They were still jabbering away in French. One was holding the bottle of Restorils, another was holding my passport, and the third was scratching his weak Swiss chin, as if he were deciding my fate—or did he just have an itch?

Finally, the chin-scratching Swissman spoke: “You would please repeat your story to us again.”

You
would
? What was all this
would
bullshit? Why did these stupid Frogs insist on speaking in some bizarre form of the subjunctive? Everything was based on wishes, and everything was phrased in
woulds
and
shoulds
and
coulds
and
mights
and
maybes.
Why couldn’t they just demand that I repeat my story? But nooo! They only
wished
I would repeat my story! I took a deep breath—but before I began speaking, the door opened and a fourth Customs official entered the room. This Frog, I noticed, had captain’s bars on his shoulders.