Текст книги "Catch the Wolf of Wall Street"

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

CHAPTER 9

WIRED FOR SOUND

ood Lord—they're defiling my daughter's bedroom!

It was early afternoon, and I was sitting on my gray slate patio, in a $1,200 Smith & Hawken teak armchair, when that horrific thought came bubbling up into my brain. And while I couldn't see them, I knew they were there– Frick and Frack! Tweedledee and Tweedledum!OCD and the Mormon were camped out in my daughter's perfect pink bedroom, sneaking peeks at me through the tiny gaps in the perfect pink slats of her Venetian blinds.

What kind of father would allow such a thing to happen? I was supposed to be Chandler's protector! Her guardian! Her savior! It was a daddy's job to keep intruders out; yet now there were two armed intruders defiling her bedroom, as a hundred fifty immaculately dressed Barbie dolls and an equal number of wildly overpriced stuffed animals looked on in utter helplessness, bearing silent witness to Daddy's failure as a protector.

Meanwhile, the Chef was due to arrive any minute, so I needed to grab hold of myself. I needed to rein in all these stray thoughts roaring through my brain—the guilt, the remorse, the panic, the sheer fucking terror! In truth, it wasn't really my fault that the FBI had declared eminent domain over my daughter's perfect pink bedroom; the problem was one of geometry, since Chandler's window happened to be at the perfect angle for OCD and the Mormon to take clandestine snapshots of the Chef as we sat outside on the gray slate patio and I went about destroying his life.

Such shame I felt! Such terrible dishonor! Me—theignoble rat!

Still, it happened to be beautiful outside. It was one of those glorious, uplifting days, where a young man of worth and substance can relish Mother Nature and all she has to offer. And what better place to do it than from the fabulous gray slate patio at Chez Belfort? The scenery, after all, was beautiful; behind me, my ten-thousand-square-foot gray stone mansion rose above the grounds with the grandeur and magnificence of the Palace of Versailles; before me, the crystal-blue waters of my Olympic-size swimming pool sparkled like diamonds; and, beyond that, my breathtaking pond and waterfall system was pumping out thousands of gallons of water per minute, as a jet-powered fountain shot up a thick stream of it twenty feet into the air, in a dazzling display of wealth and excess. Such beauty I'd surrounded myself with! Such opulence!

Then my spirits sank. That lousy pond and waterfall had set me back a million fucking bucks, a million fucking bucks I could really use right now! Just this morning I had had a debilitating attack of money anxiety. I was alone in bed when the cruel reality of having to disgorge most of my assets to the federal government hit me like an iron wrecking ball. Next thing I knew, my heart was beating out of my chest, and I was sweating profusely. I started panicking.

And why was I alone? Because that dirty Duchess hadn't even come homelast night! Apparently she'd zeroed in on a new gold mine and was now in the process of staking her claim. It was only a matter of time until she became the blond-headed arm candy of another mine owner. Where did that leave me? What woman would want a broke and penniless Wolf who'd ratted out his friends?

I took a deep breath and resisted the urge to sneak a peek up at my daughter's Venetian blinds. I had been up there myself—less than five minutes ago—and the scene was sheer bedlam. The Mormon had been pacing back and forth (while smiling broadly and kindly) with a Minolta camera dangling from his neck, like some grinning Japanese tourist. Meanwhile, OCD had been hunched over on his knees, affixing an ultrasensitive tape recorder just above my loins, using a roll of masking tape he'd purchased at Staples.

For my part, I had mostly been complaining. “Jesus—this is gonna hurt like a bitch when you take it off!” I'd snapped at OCD. I was alluding to the fact that most of my pubic hair would be ripped off when he removed the recorder.

“I know, I know,” OCD had replied sympathetically, as he carefully avoided my pubic hair with the back of his hand. “But you gotta trust me on this one; there's no better place to hide a tape recorder.” He shrugged as he secured the last piece of masking tape four inches above my scrotal sac. “Even someone as suspicious as the Chef is gonna think twice before he pats down your balls!”

Fair enough, I'd thought, but what about the wire attached to the recorder? It was rising up out of the belt line of my Levi's, then continuing up the midline of my abdomen. At the tip of the wire, a tiny microphone, about the size of a number-two-pencil eraser, was taped between the manly depression of my pectoral muscles. According to OCD, this taping apparatus—called a Nagra—was so sensitive that it would pick up our conversation even if we whispered. And those were his final words of wisdom before I left my daughter's bedroom and headed downstairs to the patio.

So here I was, wired for sound. The Chef, I prayed, would be too smart to incriminate himself.

Just then my longtime maid, Gwynne Latham, emerged from the kitchen's side entrance. She wore white cotton slacks, a loose-fitting white T-shirt, and white tennis sneakers. In fact, dressed the way she was, you might have mistaken her for the Good Humor Lady, if not for the fact that she was carrying a sterling-silver tray with a pitcher of iced tea and two tall glasses on it. Gwynne was in her mid-fifties, although she looked a good ten years younger. She was an ageless, timeless, chubby, light-skinned black woman, with fine Caucasian features and the purest of hearts. Gwynne was a Southerner who, back in the day, had doted on me like I was the child she never had. In the early days of my addiction, she served me iced coffee and Quaaludes in bed, and in the later days, when I was so drugged out that I'd lost most of my motor skills, she changed my clothes and wiped gobs of drool off my chin.

But now, since I'd become sober, she'd redirected that unconditional love toward Chandler and Carter, spending most of her day doting on them. (God save them.) Anyway, Gwynne was like family, and the mere thought of having to let her go one day made me terribly sad. Just how much she knew about what was going on I wasn't quite sure. And then, all at once– a terrible thought!

Gwynne was a Southerner, which meant she was genetically predisposed toward idle chatter. And, like everyone, she loved the Chef and would most certainly try to strike up small talk with him. I could only imagine it: “Oh—hi, Chef! Can I fix you something to eat, maybe a turkey sandwich or a bowl of fresh fruit?”… “Well, sure, Gwynne, do you have any strawberries?”… “No, I'm sorry, Chef, the two men in Chandler's bedroom ate the last of the strawberries.”… “There are two men in Chandler's bedroom? What do they look like, Gwynne?”…”Well, Chef, one of them smiles a lot; he's wearing headphones and he has a camera around his neck with a telephoto lens; the other one doesn't smile at all, but he has a giant revolver on his hip and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt loop.”…

Oh, Christ—I needed to say something to Gwynne! I had introduced the occupying forces as old friends, and Gwynne, never one to ask questions, had taken things at face value, smiling warmly at the invaders and then asking them if they wanted something to eat, just like she would with the Chef! I had arranged for the kids to be out this afternoon, and I could probably get by without Gwynne for a few hours, although she might get insulted if I were to just ask her to hightail it off the property without explanation.

“I brought you some iced tea for your business meeting,” Gwynne said lovingly, although it came out like, “I brawwght yuh sum ice tea fuh yuh biznez meet'n.” She placed the sterling-silver tray on the obscenely expensive round teak table with great care. “Ya sure those men upstairs wud'n care for sumthin’?” she added.

“No, Gwynne, I'm sure they're fine.” With great weariness, I said, “Listen, Gwynne, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't mention anything about those two men upstairs while Dennis is around”—I paused, searching for a possible explanation as to why– “because it, uh, has to do with, uh, security issues. It's all about security issues, Gwynne, especially with all that's been going on around here.” What the fuck was I talking about?

Gwynne nodded sadly, seeming to understand. Then she began staring at my light-blue polo shirt, twisting her lips. “My oh my, you have a li'l stain on yer shirt. Look,” and she began walking toward me with her finger pointed straight at the hidden microphone.

I jumped out of my armchair, as if the teak had suddenly become electrified. Gwynne stopped dead in her tracks, and there she stood, the Good Humor Lady, staring at me with a strange look on her face. Christ—she knew, didn't she!It was written all over her face—and all over mine too! I practically shrieked it: I'm a rat, Gwynnie! I'm a rat! Don't talk to me! I'm wired for sound! I'm wired for sound!

In fact, her face betrayed nothing save genuine concern that the man she'd worked for for almost a decade had suddenly lost his marbles. In retrospect, there were many things I could have said to Gwynne to explain my irrational behavior. I could have told her a yellow jacket had spooked me, that I'd gotten a cramp in my leg, that it was a delayed reaction to those three torturous days behind bars.

Instead, all I said was, “Jesus, Gwynne, you're right! I better go upstairs and change my shirt before Dennis gets here,” and I ran upstairs to my closet and changed into a dark-blue short-sleeve polo shirt. Then I went into the master bathroom—with its $100,000 gray marble floor, oversize Swedish sauna, and glorious whirlpool bathtub that was so large it was better suited for Shamu the Killer Whale than the Wolf of Wall Street—and I flicked on the light and took a good hard look in the mirror.

I didn't like what I saw.

“Eyyyyyy,”said a smiling Chef, extending his arms for a welcoming embrace. “Come here and give me a hug, you!”

Christ Almighty! The Chef knew too!He had seen it on my face-just like Gwynne had! When he hugged me he was going to pat me down for a wire. I was frozen, panic-stricken. It was precisely 1:05 p.m., and time seemed to be standing still. We were in the mansion's grand marble entryway, separated by only four gleaming squares of black-and-white Italian marble—arranged checkerboard style—and I was trying to conjure up a lame excuse as to why I shouldn't embrace the Chef as I always did.

The calculations began roaring through my brain faster than I could keep track of them. If I didn'thug the Chef he would know something was wrong—yet if I didhug the Chef he might feel that devilish little recorder taped to my loins or that supersensitive microphone taped to my chest. Such dishonesty! Such deception! I was a rat!Yet if I perched my ass out a bit and slumped my shoulders forward, then perhaps I'd be safe.

As I stared at the Chef I became terribly conscious of the devilish wares OCD had affixed to my body—the recorder, the microphone, and the masking tape seemed to be growing larger, heavier, more obvious. The recorder was no bigger than a pack of Marlboros, yet it felt larger than a shoe box, and the pea-size microphone weighed less than an ounce, yet it felt heavier than a bowling bowl. I was sweating profusely, and my heart was going thump thump thump,as if a frightened rabbit had taken up residence there. And there stood the Jersey Chef, in his snazzy single-breasted light-gray suit with light-blue overplaid and a crisp white dress shirt with spread British collar. I had no choicebut to hug him, but then—a brainstorm: a contagious pathogen!

With a couple of sniffles, I said, “Jesus, Dennis, you're a sight for sore eyes… sniff, sniff…Thanks for coming over.” I shot my right hand out and locked my elbow, offering a hearty handshake. “But don't get too close to me; I think I caught something in that jail cell… sniff sniff… A flu bug, I think.” I smiled sheepishly and jutted my right hand out an extra inch, as if to say, “Put it there, pal!”

Alas, the Chef was a man's man, and no flu bug on earth was going to scare him away. “Get over here!” he snapped. “Cold or no cold, it's times like these when you find out who your true friends are.”

Who your true friends are? Christ—such gut-wrenching guilt!It now had the distinct pleasure of meeting the sheer panic that had already taken up residence in my brain. Then came a lightning-fast fight to the death. The guilt was saying, “How could you rat out someone as loyal as the Chef? Have you no shame?” to which the panic replied, “Fuck the Chef! If you don't rat him out you'll end up like that drooling old bastard Mr. Gower.” The guilt countered, “It doesn't matter; the Chef has been loyal and true, and to rat him out would make you lower than pond scum!” and the panic replied, “Who gives a shit! I'd rather be pond scum than sitting in jail the rest of my life! Besides, the Chef will end up ratting out the Blue-eyed Devil to save his own skin, so what's the fucking difference?” The guilt argued, “That's not necessarily true. The Chef isn't a pussy, like you; he's a stand-up guy.” Then suddenly– a fresh wave of panic!-the Chef had brushed past my hand and was rapidly closing the distance.

Christ!What should I do? Think, you little rat!The high road or the low road? Guilt or self-preservation? Alas, when you're a rat, self-preservation outweighs all: Just before the Chef and I embraced, my rat brain unleashed a flood of emergency signals to my musculoskeletal system. Faster than I knew it, my ass popped out like a male hooker advertising his trade, my shoulders slumped forward like Quasimodo ringing a church bell, and that was how we embraced—with the Jersey Chef standing tall and proud, and the Wolf of Wall Street standing hunchbacked and hookerlike.

“Are you all right?” asked the Chef, releasing me from his embrace. He grabbed my shoulders and held me at arms’ length. “Did you hurt your back again?”

“No,” I answered quickly. “It's just a bit sore from sitting in that jail cell. And also from my cold… sniff, sniff”I rubbed my nose with the back of my hand. “You know, it's amazing, but if I get even the least bit sick it goes straight to my back.” Jesus! What the fuck was I talking about? I shrugged, trying to organize my thoughts. “Come on, let's sit outside. I could use a little fresh air.”

“You lead, I follow,” said the Chef.

A pair of prodigious French doors led out to the stone patio, and the moment we stepped through them I could feelthe click click clickof the Mormon's dreaded Minolta. It seemed to be burning holes through me, like a laser beam. When we reached the teak target zone, I offered the Chef the overpriced armchair facing the bedroom window.

I resisted the urge to look up at the Venetian blinds, pouring each of us a glass of iced tea instead. Then I started in with small talk. “I'll tell you,” I said wearily. “I can't believe these cocksuckers”—as cocksuckersescaped my lips, it occurred to me that OCD and the Bastard might not be appreciative of that characterization of them. I made a mental note to be more considerate in the future—”have me under house arrest. Like I'm really a flight risk with a wife and two kids.” I shook my head in disgust. “What a fucking joke.”

The Chef nodded in agreement. “Yeah, well, that's the game these bastards play,” he said venomously. “They'll do whatever they can to make your life miserable. How's the Duchess holding up?”

I shook my head and let out a great sigh. “Not well,” I said. I paused, fighting down the urge to pour my heart out to the Chef. Even rats have pride, after all, and I knew that countless others would be listening to this tape at some point. “She's acting like all this comes as a great shock to her, as if she thought she was married to a doctor or something. I don't know… I don't think we're gonna make it through this, not as a couple.”

“Don't say that,” the Chef replied quickly. “You two are gonna make it through this thing, but only if youstay strong. She's your wife, so she's gonna follow your lead, one way or the other. Show weakness to her and badabing”—the Chef clapped his hands a single time—”she'll be out the door in two seconds flat. It's the nature of the female animal; they gravitate toward strength.”

I took a moment to consider the Chef's words, and for a brief instant my spirits lifted, but then they sank again. Indeed, the Chef's words were usually full of wisdom, but, in this case, he was completely off the mark. Whether or not I stayed strong had nothing to do with it; the Duchess was strong enough on her own-strong enough to know that under no circumstances would she allow my problems to diminish her quota on ore extraction one iota. She had grown up dirt-poor on the trash-lined streets of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and there was no way she would be willing to risk history repeating itself.

Nevertheless, this was a perfect opportunity to make an important point to the Chef, namely, that I had no intention of cooperating. In a dead-serious tone, I said, “Yeah, well, maybe I can't control the Duchess's actions, but I can control my own. You don't have to worry about me staying strong, Dennis. I'm gonna fight this thing to the bitter end, with my last dying breath if I have to. I don't care how much it costs, or how bloodyit gets, or how many bodies get buried along the way. I don't give a flying fuck about any of it! I'm taking this thing to trial, and I'm gonna get fucking acquitted.” I shook my head, liking the way my blustering sounded. It was very Wolflike. Too bad I was such a pussy. “You just fucking wait and see,” I added, twitching my nose menacingly.

“Good for you!” the Chef said emphatically. “That's exactly what I wanted to hear. Just keep thinking like that and those bastards downtown are gonna be in for a rude awakening.” He shrugged confidently. “They expect you to just roll over and play dead, because that's what everyone else does. But when it comes down to it—they got theirversion of things and we got ourversion of things, and ourversion of things will make just as much sense to a jury as theirversion of things.”

“And the burden of proof isn't on us,” I added confidently, “it's on them.”

“Exactly,” said the Chef, “and last time Ichecked, you're innocent until proven guilty in this fine country of ours.” He flashed me a quick smile and winked. “And even if you areguilty, they still gotta provethat guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and that ain't so easy to do when you got two versions of things, understand?”

I nodded slowly. “I do,” I said halfheartedly, “but… I mean… it's a pretty good cover story we have, but it's still not as believable as the truth. You know?”

“Don't kid yourself,” snapped the Chef. “The truth is stranger than fiction sometimes.” He shrugged. “In fact, I'd take a good cover story over the truth anyday of the week. Anyway, I think the biggest problem we're facing here is that Danny is still in jail. The longer he sits in there, the more likely he is to flip.” The Chef paused, as if searching for the right words. “See, while he's sitting in there, he has no idea what's going on on the outside. He doesn't know that I'mwith him and that you'rewith him; he might be thinking that he's alone in all this—maybe even that you'recooperating. God only knows what the feds are whispering in his ear.” The Chef shook his head in consternation, then suddenly his face lit up. “I'll tell you what I reallyneed to do: I need to get myself into that cell to speak to Danny, to let him know that everything's gonna be all right.” The Chef compressed his lips and nodded slowly. “That would be the best thing for us right now. Maybe I can get myself on the visiting list. Whaddaya think?”

Good Lord-the Chef was as tough as nails! He was prepared to go right into the heart of enemy territory! Did he know no fear? Was he really that much of a warrior? It was all starting to make sense now: The feds had never been able to nab the Chef and the Devil because they didn't think like other men. They were true Scarfaces, white-collar mobsters of a wholly different sort.

Just then Gwynne came walking out of the kitchen.

Oh, Jesus!I thought. Jabber jabber jabber!

Would she spill the beans? There was no telling. Her heart was much too pure to fathom all this wickedness going on here, all this deceit. As she approached, I noticed she was holding the cordless phone. She greeted the Chef first, in warm Southern tones: “Well, hi there, Dennis, how are you?” which came out like, “Wail, hi there, Dainess, how'r yew?”

“I'm fine,” answered the Chef, in warm Jersey tones. “Nevuh bedduh. How youdoing, Gwynne?”

“Oh, ahhhm fahyn, ahhhm fahyn,” the Southern belle answered, and there was a very sad smile attached to those two “I'm fines,” a smile that so much as said, “As fine as could be expected, considering my boss has one foot in the slammer, his wife has one foot in a new gold mine, and I'm about to be out of a fucking job!” Then she turned to me and said, “Your lawy'r is on the phone. He said it's important.”

Magnum? Why would he call now?He knew about this meeting. Why interrupt the flow of things? I held up a finger to the Chef and then rose from my chair and grabbed the cordless from Gwynne. With my back to the Chef, I looked Gwynne in the eye and motioned discreetly toward the kitchen with my chin, as if to say, “All right, why don't you skedaddle on out of here before you spill the beans, jabber-jaw!” to which Gwynne shrugged and headed back to the safety of the kitchen.

I walked a few feet away, to the wrought-iron railing at the edge of the patio, placed my elbows on the railing, and leaned over. I was still within earshot of the Chef when I said into the phone, “Hey, Greg. What's going on?”

“Yeah, it's Greg,” said OCD's voice, “but not the Greg you were expecting. Just act natural.”

Jesus Christ!Why the fuck was OCD calling? Had he lost his mind? “Yeah,” I said casually, “well, that doesn't surprise me. Danny's a stand-up guy; he'll never cooperate.” I turned to the Chef and winked, then said into the phone, “Anyway, just tell Danny's lawyer that I'm there for him no matter what. Whatever he needs.”

“Good,” said OCD, “that was quick thinking. You're doing great so far. But listen to me: Dennis seems very open to talk to you, so I want you to see if you can set up a meeting with Brennan. I think he might go for it.”

“I'll try calling her,” I said skeptically, knowing full well that the chances of getting a face-to-face with the Blue-eyed Devil were one in a million. Even in the best of times he was one paranoid bastard, but now—in the worst of times—there was no wayhe'd be reckless enough to take a meeting with me.“But I haven't spoken to Nancy in almost a year,” I said into the phone. “I think she hates Danny more than the government does.”

I looked at the Chef, who was staring at me quizzically, the way a person does when they're trying to figure out the other end of a phone conversation. Christ, if he only knew!I flashed him a quick smile and rolled my eyes and shook my head quickly, as if to say, “My lawyer is totally wasting my time here,” then I said into the phone, “Yeah, well, you just tell Danny's lawyer to make sure Danny knows I'm with him. That's the”– beep, beep,went the call-waiting—”most important thing. Anyway, I gotta go. I got another call coming in.” I clicked over to the next line. “Hello?”

An unfamiliar female voice, rather sultry, said, “Hi… is this Jordan?”

“Yeah,” I replied, slightly annoyed at the sultry voice. What the fuck did this voicewant? “This is Jordan, who's this?”

“Maria Elena. I'm Michael Burrico's fiancée.” My heart sank to my stomach before my brain even knew the reasons why. Michael Burrico was the Duchess's first love—back from her glorious Brooklyn days—when she was still a Duchess in embryo. Last I'd heard, he was living in Manhattan and he'd struck it rich in the construction business. In the Duchess's mind, I knew, that could translate into only two simple words: precious ore.

In a tone laced with sarcasm, I said to Maria, “Yeah, Maria. Your fiancé was my lovingsecond wife's first boyfriend. To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

Maria let out a tiny grunt before she said, “Well, I know you're going through a bad time right now, but I thought you'd like to know that your wife was knocking on my fiancé's door last night– around midnight. She was…” and Maria kept on talking, but I stopped listening—or, more accurately, I was unable to listen because my head was now filling with steam. I could literally hear the hissing sound, as hurt, anger, embarrassment, and hopelessness flooded my senses all at the same time.

I didn't even know who to be more embarrassed for at this point, her or me. Our life together had come to represent a laughingstock, the ultimate cautionary tale of rich men and trophy wives, of cutting corners in business, of cutting corners in life. We had played the Game of Life hard and fast—careening down the highway at a million miles an hour—and we had ended up losers, the ultimate crash-and-burn story. The only difference between the Duchess and me was that she was trying to walk away from the accident without a scratch, while I had no choice but to accept my fate as a quadriplegic burn victim.

“… and I would really appreciate it,” Maria continued, in an edgy tone, “if you would tell your wife to keep her paws away from my fiancé.”

Well said, I thought. In fact, I couldn't have agreed with Maria more, which was why I answered her with a big fat clickin her ear, without saying so much as good-bye. Then I turned to the Chef and froze, bewildered, not knowing what to say. My mind was double-tracking wildly. It had been hard enough to focus before, but now—this was a bit much. Everything was hitting me all at once, from all angles. Every man has his breaking point, and I was now at mine.

As I stared at the Chef, I knew I should be trying to figure out a way to broach the subject of the Blue-eyed Devil, and I knew that OCD and the Mormon were right upstairs, hanging on my every word, making careful notes of my performance—notes that one day would go into my 5K letter and decide how many years I spent in prison.

Yet, with all that was going on, with all that was at stake, with my freedomhanging in the balance, the only question my brain was asking itself was: What time is the Duchess coming home tonight? That was all that mattered to me. I wanted to confront her—no, I neededto confront her. I couldn't move forward in my life until I had an all-out brawl with her. A rip-roaring fight that could end with only one thing: violence. The Duchess was toast. History. I was not going to let her get away with this, not for one second longer. If this was, indeed, a crash-and-burn story, then it would be one without any survivors, save the children. Let my parents raise them, I figured; they'd certainly do a much better job than the Duchess and me.

“You okay?” the Chef asked warmly. “You look a bit pale.”

No response, then—”No… I mean, yeah.” I began nodding my head. “It was, uh, just something with Nadine's maternity business. A girl called. She's pregnant. With a baby.” I smiled vacantly. “I'm okay. I'm… I'm as right as the mail, Dennis,” and the first thing I'm gonna do when the Duchess gets home, I thought, is confront her. But I won't tell her about the phone call, not in the beginning. I'll wait until she denies ringing that bastard's doorbell; then I'll spring it on her. Then we'll see…

I sat back down, my heart beating out of my chest, my mind racing out of control. I placed the phone on the table. My mouth was bone-dry. I looked at the Chef, forcing a smile. It was time to end this meeting. I couldn't sit here anymore. I couldn't muster a single constructive thought until I confronted the Duchess.

With despair in my heart, I threw a Hail Mary pass. “I'll tell you the truth,” I muttered, “I don't know which are worse: my problems with the feds or my problems with the Duchess.” I shook my head in genuine bewilderment. Then, with a smirk, I added, “Maybe I should go see Bob; maybe hecan offer me some words of wisdom, because for the life of me I don't have any.”

There were a few moments of silence, then the Chef nearly knocked me out of my seat when he said, “I think that's an excellent idea. Bob would love to talk to you. How's Tuesday at the golf course? You think you could work it out with the ankle-bracelet people?”

Yeah, I thought, I'm sure the ankle-bracelet people would be willing to look the other way for a meeting with the Blue-eyed Devil, although, at this particular moment, I couldn't give two shits about that. All that mattered was what time the Duchess was coming home.

Everything else was incidental.