The Wolf of Wall Street (57 page)

“…and it’s fucking despicable,” I was saying, “that this bastard calls himself a professional. Forget the fact that he told my wife not to come visit me while I was rotting away in the loony bin! I mean, that alone is grounds to have his legs broken. But to invite her to the movies to try to coax her into bed, well, that’s grounds for
death
!” I shook my head in rage and let out a deep breath, happy to finally get things off my chest.

And George actually agreed with me! Yes, in his opinion my drug interventionist did deserve to die. So we spent the next few minutes debating the best ways to kill him—starting with my idea of cutting off his dick with a pair of hydraulic bolt cutters. But George didn’t think that would be painful enough, because the interventionist would go into shock before his dick hit the carpet and bleed out in a matter of seconds. So we moved on to fire—burning him to death. George liked that because it was very painful, but it worried him because of the possibility of collateral damage, since we would be burning his house down as part of the plan. Next came carbon monoxide poisoning, which we both agreed was far too painless, so we debated the pros and cons of poisoning his food, which, in the end, seemed a bit too nineteenth century. A simple botched-burglary attempt came to mind, one that turned into murder (to avoid witnesses). But then we thought about paying a crack addict five dollars to run up to the interventionist and stab him right in the gut with a rusty knife. This way, George explained, he would bleed out nice and slow, especially if the stab wound was just over his liver, which would make it that much more painful.

Then I heard the door swing open and a female voice yell, “George, whose Mercedes is that?” It was a kind, sweet voice, which happened to have a ferocious Brooklyn accent attached to it, so the words came out like:
“Gawge, whoze Mihcedees is that?”

A moment later, one of the cutest ladies on the planet walked in the kitchen. As big as he was, she was tiny—maybe five feet, a hundred pounds. She had strawberry-blond hair, honey-brown eyes, tiny features, and perfect Irish Spring skin, smattered with a fair number of freckles. She looked to be in her late forties or early fifties, but very well preserved.

George said, “Annette, say hello to Jordan. Jordan, say hello to Annette.”

I went to shake her hand, but she moved right past it and gave me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. She smelled clean and fresh and of some very expensive perfume, which I couldn’t quite place. Annette smiled and held me out in front of her by my shoulders, at arm’s length, as if she were inspecting me. “Well, I’ll give you one thing,” she said matter-of-factly, “you’re not the typical stray George brings home.”

We all broke up over that one, and then Annette excused herself and went about her usual business, which was making George’s life as comfortable as possible. In no time flat, there was a fresh pot of coffee on the table, as well as cakes and pastries and donuts and a bowl of freshly cut fruit. Then she offered to cook me a full-blown dinner, because she thought I looked too thin, to which I said, “You should’ve seen me forty-three days ago!”

And as we sipped our coffee, I kept going on about my interventionist. Annette was quick to jump on the bandwagon. “He sounds like a real bastard”—
bahstid
—“if you ask me,” said the tiny Brooklyn firecracker. “I think you got every right in the world to wanna chop his
cojones
off. Don’t you, Gwibbie?”

Gwibbie?
That was an interesting nickname for George! I kinda liked it, although it didn’t really suit him. Perhaps Sasquatch, I thought…or maybe Goliath or Zeus.

Gwibbie nodded and said, “I think the guy deserves to die a slow, painful death, so I want to think about it overnight. We can plan it out tomorrow.”

I looked at Gwibbie and nodded in agreement. “Definitely!” I said. “This guy deserves a fiery death.”

Annette said to George, “And what are you gonna tell him tomorrow, Gwib?”

Gwib said, “Tomorrow I’m gonna tell him that I want to think about it overnight and then we can plan it out the next day.” He smiled wryly.

I smiled and shook my head. “You guys are too much! I knew you were fucking around with me.”

Annette said, “
I
wasn’t! I think he does deserve to have his
cojones
chopped off!” Now her voice took on a very knowing tone. “George does interventions all the time, and I’ve never heard of the wife being left out of it, right, Gwib?”

Gwib shrugged his enormous shoulders. “I don’t like passing judgment on other people’s methods, but it sounds like there was a certain
warmth
missing from your intervention. I’ve done hundreds of them, and the one thing I always make sure of is that the person being intervened on understands how much he’s loved and how everyone will be there for him if he does the right thing and gets sober. I would never keep a wife away from her husband. Ever.” He shrugged his great shoulders once more. “But all’s well that ends well, right? You’re alive and sober, which is a wonderful miracle, although I question whether or not you’re really sober.”

“What do you mean? Of course I’m sober! I have forty-three days today, and in a few hours I’ll have forty-four. I haven’t touched anything. I swear.”

“Ahhh,” said George, “you have forty-three days without drinking and drugging, but that doesn’t mean you’re actually
sober.
There’s a difference, right, Annette?”

Annette nodded. “Tell him about Kenton Rhodes,
^*13
George.”

“The department-store guy?” I asked.

They both nodded, and George said, “Yeah, but actually it’s his idiot son, the heir to the throne. He has a house in Southampton, not far from you.”

With that, Annette plunged into the story. “Yeah, you see, I used to own a store just up the street from here, over on Windmill Lane; it was called the Stanley Blacker Boutique. Anyway, we sold all this terrific Western wear, Tony Lama boo—”

George, apparently, had no patience for drizzling even from his own wife, and he cut her right off. “Jesus Christ, Annette, what the hell does that have to do with the story? No one cares what you sold in your goddamn store or who my tenants were nineteen years ago.” He looked at me and rolled his eyes.

George took a deep breath, puffing himself up to the size of an industrial refrigerator, and then slowly let it out. “So Annette owned this store up by Windmill Lane, and she used to park her little Mercedes out in front. One day she’s inside the store waiting on a customer, and she sees through the window this other Mercedes pulling in behind her car and hitting her rear bumper. Then, a few seconds later, a man gets out with his girlfriend, and without even leaving a note he goes walking into town.”

At this point, Annette looked at me and raised her eyebrows, and she whispered, “It was Kenton Rhodes who hit me!”

George shot her a look and said, “Right, it was Kenton Rhodes. Anyway, Annette comes out of the store and sees that not only did he hit the back of her car but he also parked illegally, in a fire zone, so she calls the cops and they come and give him a ticket. Then, an hour later, he comes walking out of some restaurant, drunk as a skunk; he’s goes back to his car and looks at the parking ticket and smiles, and then he rips it up and throws it in the street.”

Annette couldn’t resist the temptation to chime in again: “Yeah, and this
bahstid
had this smug look on his face, so I ran outside and said, ‘Let me tell you something, buddy—not only did you hit my car and make a dent but you got the nerve to park in a fire zone and then just rip the ticket up and throw it on the floor and litter.”

George nodded gravely. “And I happened to be walking by as all this is happening, and I see Annette pointing her finger at this smug bastard and screaming at him, and then I hear him call her a bitch, or something along those lines. So I walk up to Annette and say, ‘Get in the damn store, Annette, right now!’ and Annette runs inside the store, knowing what’s coming next. Meanwhile, Kenton Rhodes is mouthing off to me something fierce, as he climbs inside his Mercedes. He slams the door shut and starts the car and hits the power-window button, and the thick tempered glass starts sliding up. Then he puts on this enormous pair of Porsche sunglasses—you know, the big ones that make you look like an insect—and he smiles at me and gives me the middle finger.”

I started laughing and shaking my head. “So what did you do?”

George rolled his fire hydrant of a neck. “What did I do? I wound up with all my might and I hit the driver’s side window so hard that it smashed into a thousand pieces. My hand landed directly on Kenton Rhodes’s left temple and knocked him unconscious, and his head fell right in his girlfriend’s lap, with those obnoxious Porsche sunglasses still on his face—except now they were all cockeyed.”

Through laughter, I said, “You get arrested?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. See, now his girlfriend was screaming at the top of her lungs: ‘OhmyGod! OhmyGod! You killed him! You’re a maniac!’ And she jumps out of the car and runs over to the police station to get a cop. A few minutes later, Kenton Rhodes is just coming to, and his girlfriend is running back with a cop, who happens to be my good friend Pete Orlando. So she runs over to the driver’s side and helps Kenton Rhodes out of the car and brushes all the glass off him, and then the two of them start barking away at Pete Orlando, demanding that he arrest me.

“Annette comes running out, screaming, ‘He ripped up a ticket, Pete, and he threw it on the floor! He’s a goddamn litterbug and he parked in a fire zone!’ to which Pete walks around the back of the car and starts shaking his head gravely. Then he turns to Kenton Rhodes and says, ‘You’re parked in a fire zone; move your car right now or I’m having it towed.’ So Kenton Rhodes starts muttering under his breath, cursing out Pete Orlando as he gets in his car and slams the door shut. Then he turns on the ignition and puts the car in gear and starts backing up a few feet, at which point Pete holds up his hand and yells, ‘Stop! Get out of the car, sir!’ So Kenton Rhodes stops the car and gets out and says, ‘What now?’ and Pete says, ‘I smell alcohol on your breath; you’re gonna have to take a sobriety test.’ And now Kenton Rhodes starts muttering at Pete: ‘You don’t know who the fuck I am!’ and all the rest of that crap—and he was still muttering curses a minute later when Pete Orlando arrested him for drunk driving and slapped the cuffs on him.”

The three of us cackled for what had to be at least a minute; it was my first sober belly laugh in almost ten years. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard. The story had a message, of course—that back then George was newly sober, which is to say he wasn’t really sober at all. He might’ve stopped drinking, but he was still acting like a drunk.

Finally, George regained his composure and said, “Anyway, you’re a smart guy, so I think you got the point.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that wanting to kill my interventionist is not the act of a sober man.”

“Exactly,” he said. “It’s okay to think about it, to talk about it, to even make jokes about it. But to actually act on it—that’s the point where the question of sobriety raises itself.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve been sober for more than twenty years now, and I still go to meetings every day—not just so I won’t drink alcohol but because, for me, sobriety means a lot more than not getting drunk. When I go to meetings and I see newcomers like you, it reminds me of how close I am to the edge and how easy it would be to slip off. It serves as a daily reminder not to pick up a drink. And when I see the old-timers there, people with thirty-plus years—even more sobriety than myself—it reminds me of how wonderful this program is and how many lives it’s saved.”

I nodded in understanding and said, “I wasn’t really gonna kill my interventionist, anyway. I just needed to hear myself talk about it a bit, to vent.” I shrugged and shook my head. “I guess when you look back at it now, you must be shocked that you actually did something like that to Kenton Rhodes. With twenty years sober, now you’d just turn the other cheek at an asshole like that, right?”

George gave me a look of pure incredulity. “You fucking kidding me? It wouldn’t matter if I had a hundred years sober. I’d still knock that bastard out just the same!” And we broke down hysterically once more, and we kept laughing and laughing, all the way through that wonderful summer of 1997, my first summer of sobriety.

In fact, I kept right on laughing—as did the Duchess—as we grew closer to George and Annette, and our old friends, one by one, faded into the woodwork. In fact, by the time I was celebrating my first year of sobriety, I had lost touch with almost everyone. The Bealls were still around, as were some of Nadine’s old friends, but people like Elliot Lavigne and Danny Porush and Rob Lorusso and Todd and Carolyn Garret could no longer be in my life.

Of course, people like Wigwam, and Bonnie and Ross, and some of my other childhood friends still showed up for an occasional dinner party and whatnot—but things would never be the same. The gravy train had officially stopped running, and the drugs, which had been the glue, were no longer there to hold us together. The Wolf of Wall Street had died that night in Boca Raton, Florida, overdosing in the kitchen of Dave and Laurie Beall. And what little of the Wolf still remained was extinguished when I met George B., who set me on a path of true sobriety.

Exempt from that, of course, was Alan Lipsky, my oldest and
dearest
friend, who’d been there long before any of this happened, long before I’d ever had that wild notion of bringing my own version of Wall Street out to Long Island—creating chaos and insanity among an entire generation of Long Islanders. It was sometime in the fall of 1997 when Alan came to me, saying that he couldn’t take it anymore, that he was sick and tired of losing his clients’ money and that he’d rather do nothing than keep Monroe Parker open. I couldn’t have agreed more, and Monroe Parker closed shortly thereafter. A few months later Biltmore followed suit, and the era of the Strattonite finally came to a close.