Текст книги "Catch the Wolf of Wall Street"

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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CHAPTER 12

LEAPS OF LOGIC

recisely one hour later, I was back in the Bastard's dungeon, with two slices of pizza digesting in my stomach and my three captors staring at me intently. I had spent the last fifteen minutes talking about the Blockhead—explaining how he'd insinuated himself into every aspect of my life, both business and personal. He did everything for me, I told them, almost like a second wife. And although I maintained no official rank at the Investors’ Center, anyone who saw us together knew I was the boss. And Kenny was fine with that; in fact, he relished it.

There are kings and there are kingmakers, I said to my captors, and the Blockhead was definitely the latter. I explained how Kenny began spending the bulk of his day running the operations of what had now become our office within an office. We had our own section at the back of the boardroom where our staff sat. At the time, we had four connectors, three stockbrokers, and one female sales assistant, all of whom had sworn loyalty to me (at Kenny's urging).

And I was now saying, “What impressed me most about Kenny– or should I say, what baffled me most—was the never-ending stream of friends he paraded into the office. And they were all cut from exactly the same mold: in their late teens or early twenties, from reasonably good families, and reasonably well educated.”

“Interesting,” said the Bastard. “And these were his former drug clients?”

I shrugged. “For the most part, yes, although I wouldn't place too much emphasis on that. These were good kids, not derelicts. It was like the movie Risky Business,where Tom Cruise becomes ‘pimp-for-a-night’ and hooks up his high school buddies with a happy hit squad of high-class hookers. That's what Kenny did, and his friends kept right on coming.”

“And where did Victor Wang stand in all this?” asked the Witch.

Uh-oh!I thought. Victor's goose was cooked now! “Well, the Chinaman—I mean Victor—stayed out of the mix for a while. He was too busy waiting on the sidelines, observing. See, he and Kenny had this completely bizarre friendship at the time. It was a mixture of love, hate, and mutual contempt, and, depending on the moment, how they felt about each other was a complete crap-shoot. They could be best friends, mortal enemies, or anywhere in between.

“In the spring of 1988, when all this was happening, Kenny and Victor were on the outs. I would only find out later that it was because of me.”

“Why is that?” asked OCD.

“Because Victor had taken Kenny's swearing loyalty to me as a personal affront. Since they were kids, they'd always planned on going into business together, and since Victor was the brighter of the two, he was their undeclared leader. Even when Kenny had brought Victor to my meat company, it was only for him to scope things out, to see if the idea was worth stealing for him and the Blockhead—which, of course, it wasn't. But flash forward eighteen months later, and the same forces were at work when Kenny called me out of the blue wanting to be a stockbroker.

“In the beginning, he had every intention of learning what he could and then going off with Victor. But what Kenny hadn't counted on was being blown away when he heard me on the phone. Suddenly he realized that there were other people out there even sharper than his beloved Victor Wang. So he shifted loyalties; rather than trying to tap my brain for knowledge and wisdom, he took the opposite approach, throwing every last drop of himself into promoting me—and trying to turn me into a king.”

“What a sordid tale,” muttered OCD.

“Yeah, it certainly is. But, anyway, to sum up all this Victor Wang business, Kenny had tried to get him into the picture while we were still at the Investors’ Center. He'd beggedVictor to swear loyalty to me, but Victor refused; he was too proud. So he pooh-poohed the whole stock-market idea and continued dealing coke.” I shrugged. “And as the months passed, I quickly grew in power, and the window slammed shut in Victor's face. In less than a year, Stratton would be Stratton, and most of Victor's friends would be working for me. The dullest would go on to make hundreds of thousands a year, the sharpest would make millions, and a select few would make tens of millions. The latter were the ones I backed in their own firms, which I used to expand my nefarious empire and keep the regulators off balance. Ultimately, Victor would come to own one of those firms—namely, Duke Securities—and the only reason I agreed to finance him was to placate the Blockhead.

“I had been entirely against it at the time, because I knew Victor for what he was: a man of perceived insults and silent grudges. He could never stay loyal to me, nor anyone else, for that matter.” I looked into the Witch's black eyes. “Make no mistake about it, Michele: Victor is, was, and always will be an insane character. He's two hundred pounds of indestructible muscle surrounded by fifty pounds of lavish fat, and he's not scared to go to fisticuffs if the need arises. In fact, he once hung my gay butler out the fifty-third-story window of my apartment—and that was afterpounding the guy's face into chopped meat!”

My captors stared at me, astonished. “Yeah, it's a little-known story. My gay butler stole fifty thousand dollars from me, afterNadine walked in on him having a gay orgy in our apartment.” I shrugged. “I can give you all the dirty details if you want, although violence, I assure you, played no role at Stratton. What happened with my butler was a single aberration, as well as a testament to Victor's savagery. Danny, on the other hand, is nota savage. The moment he saw Patrick bleeding, he ran into the bathroom and started vomiting.”

The Bastard held up an index finger and said, “Excuse me,” and he leaned over and whispered something in OCD's ear. Now the Witch leaned over and added her own two cents.

I made no effort to eavesdrop. After all, I was too busy lost in thought, wondering how my life had spiraled so far out of control. Perhaps if I'd followed my mother's advice and gone to medical school, maybe I would have become a cardiac surgeon like my first cousin; or maybe I would have become an orthopedist, like my other cousin; or perhaps I'd be a lawyer now, like my sainted brother, Bob. Who knew anymore? It was all so complicated.

Just then my captors broke from their huddle. “Okay,” said the Bastard, “let's move on to Danny now. When did you two finally meet?”

I thought for a moment. “In June of ‘88,” I said, “which was right around the time I decided to leave Investors’ Center. I knew the place was a total scam by then, and if I didn't leave soon my clients would get slaughtered.” I paused for a moment, considering my words. “Scamis probably too strong a word, though. I didn't think what I was doing was actually illegal.”

“You don't really expect us to believe that?” sputtered the Witch, with a disturbing twitch of her nose. I flashed her a dead smile. “Yeah, Michele, I really do, and, frankly, it shouldn't come as much of a shock to you. The Investors’ Center was a licensed brokerage firm with a compliance department, a trading department, and all the other bells and whistles. They were even members of the NASD! It wasn't like they were operating in the shadows!

“Every other month they'd take a company public, and right there on the front page of the prospectus it would say: This deal had been reviewed by the SEC.”I shrugged. “And, also, you keep forgetting how broke I was at the time. When I walked into the Investors’ Center, the only thing I was thinking about was rent money. It was driving all my decisions.” I let out an obvious sigh. “I can't explain it any better than that, although I willadmit that once rent money was no longer an issue, I began to notice a few things. At first I tried to rationalize them, but with each passing month it became more and more difficult. And I felt more and more terrible inside.”

The Witch: “So why not quit if you felt so bad?”

“Well, believe it or not, Michele, that's exactly what I had in mind when I met Danny. That was actually how I met him in the first place: I was hanging out on my terrace, playing hooky from work. I was dressed in my usual garb—a white terry-cloth bathrobe– and I was pondering the direction of my life. I had a pretty decent nest egg by then, so I wasn't under any pressure. All options were open to me—all options except opening a brokerage firm, which I had already ruled out.

“It was mid-June now, and George had broached the subject with me. He'd called me into his office and said, ‘The owners of Investors’ Center are making a fortune. It's a shame to leave so much money on the table, don't you think?’

“And my answer to George was: No, I didn't think! I wanted no part of owning a brokerage firm, especially one like the Investors’ Center. My meat-and-seafood debacle was still fresh in my mind, and I knew that every business appeared lucrative from the outside looking in; it was only when you were on the inside looking out that you got the true picture. Of course, George had no idea of that, because he'd never been in business before. All he saw were dollar signs, not a single liability.”

“So you met Danny while you were on your terrace?” asked the Bastard.

“Yes, I was living on the fourth floor, and Danny was playing with his son, Jonathon, in the playground. Jonathon was two at the time, and he always stuck out to me, because he had this terrific head of platinum-blond hair. He was incredibly cute. Anyway, after a few minutes of playing the good father, Danny appeared to be getting bored, and he drifted off to the side and lit up a cigarette. Eventually we locked eyes, and I flashed him a warm, neighborly smile.

“I think what shocks me most about this day is how normal Danny looked. He had on powder-blue golf shorts and a matching short-sleeve polo shirt. It was a golfer's ensemble, I thought, or maybe it was a yachter's ensemble. It was difficult to tell. Either way, I would've never guessed he was a Jew.”

The Bastard stared at me, confused. I continued: “Anyway, as Danny and I exchanged hellos, I noticed that Jonathon had made his way to the top of the sliding pond. At first I was impressed, because it seemed like a mighty feat for a two-year-old, but then it occurred to me that I should probably say something to Danny.

“And then, suddenly, Jonathon lost his balance and I screamed, ‘Holy shit! Watch out, Danny! Your son!’ And Danny spun around just in time to watch Jonathon take this wild tumble off the sliding pond and hit the pavement like a lead balloon.” I paused and shook my head gravely. “I'll tell you the truth: At first I thought the poor kid was dead. I mean, he was just lying there, motionless, and Danny was also motionless, too astonished to move.

“Finally, though, after a few painfully long seconds, Jonathon lifted his head and started looking around, but he wasn't crying yet. That came a second later, when he locked eyes with Danny. Then he went absolutely wild—screaming at the top of his lungs and flailing his arms about and kicking his legs wildly. So I figured I'd run downstairs and give Danny a hand. It seemed like the neighborly thing to do.

“But when I reached the playground, Jonathon was crying even louder. He was in Danny's arms and literally going ballistic! I said to Danny, ‘You want me to go find your wife for you?’ And Danny recoiled in horror and said, ‘Good God!Find anybody but her! Please! You can call the cops, for all I care, and have me arrested for being a bad father, just don't call my wife, please!

“Of course I thought he was kidding at the time, so I nodded my head and smiled. But he didn't smile back, and that was because he wasn't joking. I wouldn't find out why, though, for a few more days, until Denise and I had the pleasure of going out for dinner with them and watching Nancy pull a lit cigarette out of his mouth and throw it in his face. But, not to jump ahead here: Jonathon didfinally calm down, at which point Danny said to me, ‘My wife tells me she sees you hanging out on your terrace all week in a bathrobe. What do you do for a living?’

“ ‘I'm a stockbroker,’ I replied casually.

“ ‘Really?’ he said. ‘I thought you needed to work on Wall Street to be a stockbroker.’

“I shook my head no. ‘That's a total misconception. Everything is done over the phone now. You could be anywhere. I, for one, work in Great Neck, and I made over fifty grand last month.’

“‘Fifty grand!’ he said. ‘I don't believe it! I have a bunch of friends who are stockbrokers, and they're all sucking wind since the crash!’

“ ‘I only deal in small stocks,’ I said. ‘They weren't hit as hard by the crash. What kind of work do you do?’

“ ‘I'm in the ambulette business,’ he answered quickly, ‘and it's a total fucking nightmare. I have seven vans that constantly break down and seven Haitian drivers who barely show up for work. I'd torch the place, if I thought I could get away with it.’

“I nodded in understanding. Without even thinking, I said, ‘Well, if you want to make a change, I'm sure I can get you a job at my company. I'll train you myself,’ to which Danny looked me in the eye and said, ‘Pal, if you prove to me you're making fifty thousand a month, I'll be at your doorstep, six a.m. tomorrow morning, ready to shovel shit for you!’”

“When did he actually come to work for you?” asked the Bastard.

“The next morning,” I said. “True to his word, he was waiting at my door, holding a copy of The Wall Street Journal.”

“What about his ambulette business?”

I shrugged. “He never went back. He had a fifty-fifty partner, and he just handed the guy the keys and said, ‘See ya later, pal. Nice knowing you!’ and that was it. He cold-called for me for the rest of the summer and then passed his broker's test the first week of September. George, meanwhile, was becoming more and more aggressive with me about opening up our own brokerage firm. The SEC had started investigating the Investors’ Center. If word leaked out, he said, the firm would quickly collapse.

“What worried me most was that I had just convinced Lipsky and the Penguin to come work for me. The Penguin had finally thrown in the towel on the meat-and-seafood business, and Lipsky's furniture business was on the verge of bankruptcy. So, in a way, I was responsible for them now too. That was why I finally agreed to go with George to see a lawyer, because I wanted to gather intelligence.”

“Which lawyer did you see?” asked the Bastard.

“His name was Lester Morse, although Danny and I used to call him Lester Re-Morse,because everything about the guy was remorseful, or, better yet, moroseful.He was the ultimate doom-and-gloomer, almost difficult to fathom.

“I mean, every person he knew was either rotting away in jail or had lost their last dime to the SEC. And the way the Moroser told a story made you want to slit your own wrists. He would start off by saying what a great guy someone was and how he'd made a fortune in his heyday, but the story would quickly degenerate into a cautionary tale, and he would end by saying, ‘… and what the government did to him was a real travesty. He's in Allenwood now, and he won't be getting out for ten more years.’ Then he'd shake his head and move on to the next victim.”

“Interesting,” mumbled the Bastard.

“Yeah,” I said, “what's even moreinteresting is that one of the names he brought up was Bob Brennan, the Blue-eyed Devil himself.”

The Bastard perked up. “Oh, really! What did he say about him?”

I shrugged. “He said he was the only person to ever walk away with all the marbles—two hundred million, by Lester's account.”

“Hmmm,” muttered the Bastard. “Did he say anything else?”

“Yeah, he said that Bob was too smart to get caught. He said that he was always two steps ahead of the regulators and that he covered his tracks like an Indian. I remember being very intrigued at the time—swearing to myself that if I ever decided to go into the brokerage business, I would want to be just like Bob Brennan.

“You see, Lester didn't paint out Bob to be an archcriminal—in fact, quite the contrary. According to Lester, it was the fault of overzealous regulators, along with a two-tiered justice system that was biased against penny-stock firms. WASP firms, on the other hand, got away with murder.”

“Did you believe him?” asked the Bastard.

“For the most part, yes, although I won't deny that his words seemed a bit self-serving. I knew enough at this point to realize that penny stocks stacked the deck against the clients, although a stacked deck and blatant illegality are two different things. Meanwhile, Lester's office reminded me of the Investors’ Center. It was small and dingy and didn't reek of success. And Lester reminded me of an aging leprechaun. He was a squat five foot four, and he was completely bald on top, with thick swaths of curly gray hair over his ears.”

“So it was just the three of you at the meeting?” asked the Bastard.

“No, there were four of us. Mike Valenoti was there too.” I looked at OCD. “Mike, I'm sure, you're familiar with.”

OCD nodded. “I have a bunch of questions about Valenoti.”

“I'm not surprised,” I said. “If there was a single person who helped me turn Stratton into Stratton, it was Mike Valenoti. He was the operational brain behind everything, the one who kept the place cranking away on all twelve cylinders. He was my first mentor—even before Al Abrams—and he was also the first Wall Street wizard I'd ever met. I mean, his breadth of knowledge was absolutely staggering!”

I shrugged. “But to save you time, I'll tell you that Mike Valenoti is completely innocent in this. He was always trying to keep me on the straight and narrow, and I was constantly swearing to him that I was doing things right. In the end, though, he became so overwhelmed with the influx of business that he couldn't see the big picture anymore. He had no idea I was breaking the law.”

OCD twisted his lips for a moment. “I appreciate your loyalty to Mike,” he said, “but it seems just a tinybit implausible that someone as sophisticated as Mike wouldn't know what was going on.” He flashed me a quick, disbelieving smile. “You see what I'm saying?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah, what you're saying makes total sense, Greg. But it also happens to be totally wrong.” I paused for effect. “Understand that ninty percent of Stratton's business was completely legitimate: We didn't steal money from clients’ accounts, we didn't take fraudulent companies public, and, contrary to what the press might say, our clients could always sell if they wanted to.” I shrugged. “Of course, our sales practices left a lot to be desired, but whose didn't? Prudential-Bache's? Lehman Brothers?

“ Pru-Bache was busy ripping off grandmas and grandpas, and Lehman Brothers made them look like choirboys. In fact, it was the Lehman Brothers’ scripts that served as the blueprint for Stratton's!” I shook my head slowly. “The fraudulent side of Stratton occurred in tiny blips, and unless you were privy to those blips, everything seemed normal. But let me get back to Lester's office for a second.

“First, I quickly realized that George Grunfeld was completely worthless. He knew even less about the brokerage business than I did, and every word that came out of his mouth was utter nonsense. Lester, however, was a different story. He was knowledgeable enough, but he was completely devoid of charisma. He spoke in a low, squeaky drawl, and his words came out slowly, painfully,as if a turtle were speaking.

“I found it hard to keep my mind in one spot, so I just sat there, pretending to listen, sneaking peaks at Mike out of the corner of my eye. Lester had painted him out to be some kind of operations guru, but up until now he'd said only a few words. From a physical perspective, I was entirely unimpressed. He was dressed in a cheap blue suit and an even cheaper rayon shirt, and his hair was askew”– kind of like yours, Bastard, although Mike's hair was salt-and-pepper, while yours is a plebian shade of mud brown-“although, in retrospect, I should have known an old Wall Street war dog when I saw one.”

“What's an old Wall Street war dog?” asked the Bastard.

“It's someone who's worked on Wall Street for far too long and who's been through bull markets and bear markets, someone who's seen the dizzying excesses and the crash-and-burn stories. It's someone who's seen countless men go from rags to riches and then back to rags again, and then back to riches once more. He's seen the hookers and the drugs and the ludicrous gambling, and he's seen Wall Street go from the dark ages of fixed commissions and physical stock delivery to the modern era, where discount brokerage firms compete with Merrill Lynch and stock trades settle electronically.” I shrugged. “There are only a few true old Wall Street war dogs left in the world, because most of them have already died of either a heart attack or cirrhosis of the liver. But if you're lucky enough to actually find one, they're worth their weight in gold.

“And Mike Valenoti was one of this dying breed. Perhaps I should have known it the moment I laid eyes on him. I should have noticed the battle-ravaged look in his eye as he sat there listening to George's and Lester's inanities. He kept his chin tucked between his collarbones and his shoulders slumped over, as if he were about to fall asleep. And then there was Mike's nose, which was a real showstopper! It was coated with red spidery veins and was the size of a sweet potato! Yet, on the flipside of that, Mike had the most intelligent brown eyes I'd ever seen. They were utterly piercing, and you could tell just by lookingat them that he wasn't missing a trick.

“Anyway, not to belabor the point, the simple fact was that Mike and I hit it off fabulously that day. We spoke exactly the same language, and it was the language of Wall Street. When he started a sentence, I finished it, and vice versa. In fact, by the time the meeting was over, I'd given Mike a full-blown sales pitch, pretending he was a customer. And, of course, it completely blew him away, as it did Lester.

“But I think what's even more important about this day is the effect Mike had on me. Suddenly, I felt like the old Jordan again.” I shrugged. “Whatever the case, I knew I'd sounded sharper than sharp that afternoon, so it came as no surprise to me when Lester called me at home that night and told me that I should consider opening my own brokerage firm. Apparently Mike had pulled him aside after the meeting and said that he'd work for me for free-meaning for no up-front salary. All he wanted was a small percentage of the profits. In return, he would build me a first-class operations department to rival any firm on Wall Street.

“Lester, too, was willing to work for free. He would file all the necessary forms with the NASD and then accompany me to my membership interview. In return, all he wanted was a shot at representing the companies I took public. Whether or not they decided to use him wasn't my responsibility. I just needed to make the introduction; he would do the rest.”

“What about Grunfeld?” asked OCD.

I shook my head. “George was out. In fact, it was the first thing Lester brought up. He served no useful purpose, squeaked Lester. He was a helluva nice guy, but he was deadweight. Between Mike and me we had everything we needed to run a firm.

“Anyway, I told Lester I would think about it, although, deep down, I really didn't have any intention of going through with it. I was still gun-shy from the meat-and-seafood debacle, and I figured I'd just wait and see for a while.”

“Where are we now on the time line?” asked the Bastard.

“Early September,” I replied, “which is when things start to really heat up. First, Danny passed his broker's test, and I called him up to my apartment for a training session. Sitting on my living-room couch, I began.

“‘Okay,’ I said to him, ‘here's the deal: The first key to selling stock is to learn to read from a script without sounding like you're reading from a script. You follow me?’

“ ‘Yeah,’ he said confidently, ‘and it's no problem whatsoever.’

“‘Good,’ I shot back. ‘Just pretend you're an actor on a stage: You raise your voice and lower your voice; you speed up and then slow down. You keep your clients interested, hanging on your every word. And don't even thinkof picking up the phone until you know the answers to all potential objections. You can never sound stumped, Danny—ever!’

“He nodded confidently. ‘I got it, buddy. You don't have to worry about Danny Porush. He can sell ice to an Eskimo and oil to an Arab!’

“ ‘I'm sure he can,’ I agreed. ‘But, remember, you have to know this script like the back of your hand. You can't stutter; it's the first sign of a rookie salesman, and a client will smell it right over the phone.’ I smiled at him, while Denise looked on with anticipation. I had told her what a great salesman Danny was, in spite of never actually hearing him sell before. But he had a very cocky demeanor about him, so I just knewhe'd be great.

“With coffeepot in hand, Denise smiled at Danny and said, ‘You want me to go into the kitchen, so I don't make you nervous?’

“And Danny waved her off. ‘Please, Denise, this is like shooting fish in a barrel for a guy like me!’ And Denise shrugged and said, ‘Okay, well, I'll just stand here and listen, then.’ And Danny nodded, and I handed him a script for Arncliffe National.

“ ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘just pretend you're pitching me over the phone, and we'll role-play back and forth.’

“He nodded and took the script from me, then cleared his throat with a couple uhumsand uhus.Finally, with great confidence, he said, ‘Hi, is Jordan there?’

“ ‘Yeah,’ I replied quickly, ‘right here. How can I help you?’

“Danny rolled his neck, like a prizefighter stepping into the ring. ‘Hi, Jordan, this is Danny Porush calling from… calling from… calling from, uh, the—uh—the—uh… the In… Investors’ Center. How… are you today?’ and then he paused and started sweating.

“Denise said, ‘I think I'll go into the kitchen and leave you two boys alone.’ And a suddenly humble Danny replied, ‘Yeah, I, uh, think that's a good idea, Denise. This is a bit harder than it looks,’ and then he wiped a bead of sweat off his brow.”

“Come on!” said OCD. “You're exaggerating; he couldn't have been thatbad!”

I started laughing. “He was, Greg! In fact, he was so bad that, when he left the apartment that night, Denise said, ‘There's no way he's gonna make it, honey. He sounds retarded. I mean, why was he mumbling all night? Why couldn't he just speak up like a normal person?’

“ ‘I'm not really sure,’ I answered. ‘Maybe he's got a rare form of Tourette's that only comes out when he sells,’ and Denise nodded in agreement.

“Anyway, I made it a point to go to work the next morning, because I wanted to witness the carnage firsthand, and that's when something oddhappened, something very unexpected. I was sitting a few feet from Danny, trying to contain my laughter. He was doing the old, ‘Hi—uh, this is, uh, Da-anny Por-ush. How, uh, are you?’ But then, after about five seconds, suddenly– snap!—he completely stopped stuttering and he started sounding totally unbelievable. Almost as good as me, in fact, but not quite.” I winked at my captors.

“He started closing accounts left and right, and two weeks later, as a sign of friendship, I asked him to take a ride into the city with me to see my accountant. October fifteenth was right around the corner, and I was still on extension for my ‘87 taxes. Of course, Danny happily agreed, and off we went. We hopped into my pearl-white Jaguar and we headed into Manhattan on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Now, mind you, up until then I thought Danny was completely normal. He dressed conservatively, he acted conservatively, and he came from a very good family. He'd grown up on the South Shore of Long Island, in the town of Lawrence, which is a very wealthy area, and his father was a big-time nephrologist. Danny referred to him as the Kidney King of Brookdale Hospital.

“However, on the home front, Denise had been hearing some very strange rumors about Danny: namely, that he and his wife, Nancy, were first cousins. Of course, I told Denise she was crazy, because there was no way Danny would withhold such a fact from me. Most of the time we spent together he was bitching about his wife, explaining how her sole mission in life was to make him as miserable as possible.

“So, I figured, why wouldn't he confide in me that he and Nancy were first cousins? It made no sense. I mean, if it was true, it would definitely be playing a role in things. But I could never figure out a way to broach the subject with him, so I just kind of brushed the whole thing off, dismissing it as a vicious rumor.

“In any event, after I finished with my accountant, the two of us hopped back in my Jaguar and headed out of the city. We were somewhere around Ninety-fifth Street on the edge of Harlem when the insanity started. I remember Danny saying ‘Jesus Christ! Pull over! You gotta pull over.’ I pulled over and Danny jumped out of the car and went running into a dilapidated bodega with a cheap yellow sign Groceteria.He came running back out a minute later, holding a brown paper bag. He jumped back in the car with this insane smile on his face, and he said, ‘Drive! Hurry up! Head north, to One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street.’

“ ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ I muttered. ‘That's Harlem, Danny!’

“ ‘It's all good,’ he said knowingly, and he reached into the bag and pulled out a glass crack pipe and a dozen crack vials. ‘This stuff will make you into Superman. It's my gift to you, for all you've done for me.’

“I shook my head and started driving. ‘You're fucking crazy!’ I snarled. ‘I'm not smoking that shit! It's pure evil.’

“But he waved me off. ‘You're exaggerating,’ he said. ‘It's only evil if you have constant access to it, and they don't sell it in Bayside, so we're in the clear.’

“ ‘You know, you're a real fucking retard!’ I sputtered. ‘The chances of me smoking crack right now are less than zero. You got that, pal?’