Текст книги "Catch the Wolf of Wall Street"

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

CHAPTER 13

THE REVOLVING DOOR

Two Months Later

outhampton Beach! For better or worse, there was no denying that Meadow Lane was a fabulous place to watch the walls of reality come crashing down on me. The blue waters of the Atlantic were just behind me; the gray waters of Shinnecock Bay were just before me; and on either side of me, stately mansions—like mine—rose up from out of the dunes, like Greek temples bearing silent witness to how wonderful it was to be a wealthy WASP or a nouveau riche Jew.

My particular mansion, which would soon be owned by OCD and the Bastard, was a sprawling gray and white affair, built in the Cape Cod style. On the rear deck, a pool and Jacuzzi looked out over the Atlantic; on the front lawn, an all-weather tennis court looked out over the Shinnecock; and out in front, a row of immaculately trimmed box hedges rose up twelve feet in the air, concealing the property from view.

At this particular moment, I was sitting on a shabby-chic couch in the mansion's shabby-chic living room, staring into the doelike eyes of Sarah Weissman, ^*self-proclaimed Jewish blow-job queen. She was sitting less than two feet away, wearing a black cotton turtleneck and black knit leggings, accentuating a tight little body that reeked of past beauty and present-day bulimia.

Nevertheless, the Blow-Job Queen was still a looker. Only twenty-two, she had a pleasantly narrow face, gleaming black hair, jet-black eyes, olive skin, a first-class nose job, ortho-perfect teeth, and a lower lip lusher than the Nile. And despite knowing her only fifteen minutes, I thought she seemed like a reasonably good egg. We'd met this evening at a local AA meeting and had hit it off instantly. She was newly sober (less than a week, actually), battling a triple addiction to crack, booze, and self-induced vomiting, the latter of which I found rather disgusting. But she was on the rebound now, fresh out of detox and back in the Hamptons, ready to resume her life.

Up until now we had made mostly small talk—trading war stories about our drug addictions—but apparently she was ready to get down to business, because she was in the middle of saying, “… that it's Jewish girls who give the best blow jobs in the world. Did you know that?”

“Uh… no,” I answered. “I've never dated a Jewish girl before.”

“Well, they do,” she said proudly, “and if you want, I'll prove it to you.”

“Yeah, that would be great!” I answered, and the Jewish Blow-Job Queen quickly went to work—rising into a crouch and kneeing her way toward me with a lubricious smile on her face. Instinctively, I leaned back and rested my head on a soft, circular throw pillow, as the Blow-Job Queen reached forward with her tiny hands and unzipped my fly. Then, with remarkable efficiency, she pulled down my jeans to my ankles, climbed between my legs, and twisted her long black hair into a ponytail.

Suddenly she paused.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing, silly,” she said, as she removed her gold necklace, on the end of which dangled a diamond-studded Jewish star. She put it in her pocket. “I don't want it to get in my way.”

I nodded in understanding, and I closed my eyes, hiked up my legs, and prepared for the blow job of a lifetime. It would be just what the doctor ordered, I thought. One hummer from the Blow-Job Queen and I would forget about the Duchess forever!

“Oww!” snapped the Blow-Job Queen. “There's something jabbing me in my butt!” I looked down and– Christ!My ankle bracelet was jabbing the Blow-Job Queen in her bony butt.

I lowered my legs with the speed of a jackrabbit. “It's nothing,” I said. “Just a beeper I wear for work. It's okay; keep going.”

The Blow-Job Queen narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “A beeper, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, “a beeper.”

A few moments passed as she continued to stare. “All right,” she finally said. “I'll take your word for it,” and she slowly leaned over and started blowing me… and it was one of those long, sumptuous blow jobs, the sort a man only gets from his wife during the courting period.

I started moaning in appreciation: “Oh, God,Sarah! It feels sooogood. You were right: Jewish girls dogive the best blow jobs!”

“ Uhm-hum,” she mumbled, unable to speak.

“Ahhhh…” I moaned, and I closed my eyes and let my nervous system dissolve… letting my problems drift further and further away… until nothing mattered anymore… just the Blow-Job Queen and her blow job… and my mind started to wander…wander to the Duchess…. What was she doing right now? Was she at home with the kids, or was she out with another man? It was a weeknight, so she would probably be home with the kids… although I was hearing rumors that she was having an affair with her personal trainer, some Romanian dirtbag named Alex… although that was unimportant now…. It was the kids who were important … they were everything to me….

Just then– a cool sensation!I opened my eyes and the Blow-Job Queen's head was popping up, a concerned expression on her face. “What's wrong?” she said. “It doesn't feel good?”

I looked down– oh, Christ!My penis looked like a strand of overcooked spaghetti! How very fucking embarrassing! “Oh… uh… no,” I mumbled, “everything's fine. I mean, it's the best blow job I ever got. It's just that”—desperately I searched for the proper words—”uh, it's just that you're the, uh, the first girl I've been with in like, uh, ten years. I mean, not including my wife, of course—I mean, my ex-wife, or my soon-to-be ex-wife is more like it.” I paused for a second, asking myself if the fact that I'd slept with close to a thousand hookers while I was married to the Duchess meant I was now lying to the Blow-Job Queen.

I sat up straight and took a deep, troubled breath and let it out slow. “I'm really sorry,” I said softly. “Maybe it's too soon for me. I'm not sure.” I shook my head sadly.

The Blow-Job Queen took no offense; instead, she offered me the warmest of smiles, an altogether maternalsmile. “That's okay,” she said. “I think it's sweetthat you're nervous. It makes me want you even more.” She smiled again, and I noticed that her teeth were very white. That's good, I thought. The Blow-Job Queen has very white teeth.

“Now, lie back down and relax,” she said warmly. “And stop worrying! Everything's gonna be fine.” And, with that, the Blow-Job Queen placed her tiny hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me back down. “Just relax your mind…” she said, in a tone normally used by a hypnotist, “relax your body… relax everything… it's all gonna be okay….”

I nodded dutifully and closed my eyes, thinking—Jesus H. Christ! The Blow-Job Queen really has her shit together! I mean, here she is, three days sober, a crack addict, a bulimic, an alcoholic, most certainly a pill-popper, and probably an anorexic too, yet she's completely taken control of the situation. I felt lucky to have her.

And indeed I was. In no time flat, the Blow-Job Queen was humming away, with the sort of unbridled relish you usually see in porn videos. A few minutes later, I screamed, “Oh, my God! I”—I held back the words love you,which was what I truly felt like screaming, and screamed—”can't take it anymore!” And a split second later I was done. True to her word, the Jewish Blow-Job Queen had gotten the best of me, and my body was now limp.

Just then she popped up her head and wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “So how do you feel now?”she asked provocatively.

“Amazing, Sarah. I feel truly amazing.”

She smiled broadly and kindly. “I'm glad,” she said happily. “I'm really glad,” and she started looking around the living room at the towering sandstone fireplace behind her, at the dozen pieces of shabby-chic furniture surrounding her—all the couches and armchairs and ottomans and coffee tables and end tables and the throw pillows and flowers and vases and paintings on the walls and, just off the living room, the shabby-chic dining-room table, which was larger than a horseshoe pit. Then she looked up at the thirty-foot ceiling, and then, finally, she looked at the plate-glass wall that ran the entire length of the back of the house and looked out over the Atlantic.

“You know,” she said, “this place is really beautiful. I mean, I've been around money before, but this place reeksof old money! You know what I mean?”

Old money? Jesus! If there were newer money anywhere in the Hamptons, I was yet to find it. Perhaps she meant evaporating money? That would be more accurate. “Thanks,” I said, “but it's not old money, Sarah. It's as new as it gets.” I smiled, eager to change the subject. “Anyway, you want to take a walk on the beach? It's a beautiful night tonight.”

“I can't,” she said sadly. “I gotta get home; my boyfriend's waiting for me.”

I popped upright. “Your boyfriend! You have a boyfriend?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I live with someone. I probably shouldn't be here. You know what I mean?”

I took a moment to run that through my mind and decided she was right: She probably shouldn't be here. But, then again, at this time of year there weren't many girls in the Hamptons, so if I let the Blow-Job Queen go I would be alone again. I took a moment to study her features. Was she beautiful enough? Could she stand up to the Duchess? She had a very nice nose, the Blow-Job Queen, and perhaps I could find peace through her blow jobs. In fact, maybe I could even turn her into another Duchess! I could take her shopping and buy her clothes and jewelry, and then take her out for fancy dinners; maybe I would even introduce her to my kids. After all, she was sober for three whole days now and was definitely on the rebound. All in all, I would say, she was a very good catch!

And so it was that five days later I convinced the Jewish Blow-Job Queen to break up with her boyfriend, and I moved her into my mansion on Meadow Lane, where twice a day she gave me world-class blow jobs and occasionally made love to me. And it was perfect. We exchanged our first “I love yous” on day seven and started talking marriage on day ten. She shrugged off my ankle bracelet as if it were no big deal—in fact, the Bastard, in a rare moment of humanity, had eased my restrictions, changing them from a twenty-four-hour lockdown to a midnight curfew—and I shrugged off her excusing herself from the dinner table and vomiting up her food with the same kindness and understanding.

Meanwhile, my cooperation was going fabulously. I hadn't heard from OCD in weeks, which, according to Magnum, was par for the course. After all, I had spent a solid month singing on Court Street, going through all of Stratton's deals while giving OCD and the Bastard the education of a lifetime. Now they needed to do their homework—to subpoena records, interview witnesses, follow paper trails.

On a down note, my meeting with the Blue-eyed Devil had turned out to be a complete waste of time. He was far too cagey to get caught speaking on tape, especially to someone under indictment. Nevertheless, my captors had taken my failure in stride, assuring me that it wasn't my fault. As long as I tried my best, said OCD, I would receive my 5K letter. It was all about honesty; just remember that, he'd urged, and I'd emerge from jail still a young man.

And that was the last time we'd spoken, with the exception of a brief heads-up call, during which he told me that Danny had made bail and that Victor Wang had finally been indicted. And without saying it, the message was clear: Danny was cooperating, and Victor had become the Witch's captive, her personal trophy to be put on display.

Whatever the case, it was sometime around Thanksgiving when I finally introduced the kids to the Blow-Job Queen. And she was wonderful with them; in fact, with the exception of one hiccup-she suffered a panic attack, accompanied by violent body shakes, while the four of us were having lunch in East Hampton—I began to view her as a suitable stepmother for the children. And while we hadn't actually set a wedding date, it was only a matter of time. We were perfect together, two damaged souls who had somehow managed to fix each other.

And then disaster struck. It was the week before Christmas, and we were lying in bed together, happy as clams. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was watching TV and she was reading a book. I glanced over and noticed that she was wearing granny glasses. I also noticed a tiny scar beneath her chin. I stared at the scar. Not very attractive!I thought. Then I stared at the granny glasses. Even less attractive!I thought. Then I lowered my gaze to her tiny chest and her reed-thin arms. Downright ugly!I thought.

We were lying beneath the white silk comforter, so I couldn't take in her whole body, but, in spite of that, there was no denying that I'd caught her at a very bad angle. And that was it: I no longer loved the Blow-Job Queen.

I took a deep breath and tried to steel myself, but it was no use. I couldn't have her in my house anymore. I needed to be alone, or with the Duchess. Perhaps I could convince the Duchess to get back together for the sake of the kids. Alas, I had already tried that angle, to no avail. The latest rumor was that she was banging Michael Bolton, that ponytailed bastard of a singer!

In any event, the next day I threw the Blow-Job Queen out—or at least triedto, at which point she had a nervous breakdown in my living room, threatening suicide. So I told her that I was only kidding, that I didn't reallywant to end things. I was just getting cold feet as a result of all the turmoil in my life.

To that she smiled sadly and asked me if I would like a blow job. I pondered that for a moment, knowing that this would most certainly be the best blow job of all, considering the Blow-Job Queen would now be blowing me to maintain her position on Meadow Lane.

But in the end I told her that I wouldn't, although perhaps I would later. She seemed relieved by that, so I quickly excused myself, saying I needed to take a quick ride to see my sponsor, George, who lived just down the road.

“Can't you just come over with a straitjacket and take her away?” I asked George. “I don't see any other solution.”

Those weren't the firstwords I'd uttered to George that afternoon, but they were close to the first. The first were: “I'm in deep shit, George. The Blow-Job Queen is threatening to commit suicide, and my dick is so sore from all the blow jobs that it's ready to fall off!”

George and I were sitting in his French country kitchen on opposite sides of his bleached-wood table, while his wife, Annette, a five-foot-tall, beautiful Brooklyn firecracker with strawberry-blond hair, perfect Irish Spring skin, and a ferocious Brooklyn accent fixed us coffee. Actually, it was more than coffee (it was donuts, muffins, coffee, and freshly cut fruit), because Annette never did anything half-assed, especially when it came to achieving her life's primary mission, which was to make George's life as comfortable and wonderful as possible. And, in truth, George deserved it.

At sixty-two, he was twelve years older than Annette and served as living proof that a leopard canchange its spots. Those who hadn't heard from George in the last twenty-two years would warn you: “If you see this guy walking down the street, cross it and don't make eye contact. He's angry and dangerous, especially when he's drunk, which is always. And if he doeshappen to beat you up or simply hold you upside down by your ankle and shake you for a while, don't bother calling the cops, unless you tell them that it was some six-foot-tall, two-hundred-fifty-pound guy named George who assaulted you. This way they'll know to bring tranq-darts!“

Whatever the case, George eventually got sober, and spent the next twenty-two years of his life redeeming himself. He made his first fortune in real estate, his second fortune in drug rehabs, and, along the way, helped more recovering Hamptons alcoholics than any other ten men combined.

Ironically, the first time I met George was on TV, when his menacingly handsome face popped onto my screen at three in the morning, while I was in the midst of a cocaine binge. George was doing an advertisement for his rehab facility, Seafield, and he was saying things like, “Are you stoned… drunk… high? Where is your family

right now? You need help; Seafield has the answers…”. My response to that was to throw a bronze sculpture through my TV screen, putting a premature end to George's commercial.

Yet I remember thinking at the time that the face on my TV was the sort I would never forget—those gruffly handsome features, those piercing brown eyes, that perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair—which was why it didn't take long to recognize him when I ran into him six weeks later in Southampton, in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. And now, eighteen months after that, he was much more to me than just a sponsor. In point of fact, he was like a father.

“I can't just come over with a straitjacket,” said George, with a few shakes of his enormous head. “You know, I warned you about this: Two alcoholics dating are like two dump trucks running into each other.” He shrugged his enormous shoulders. “Anyway, like I said before: You—are—not—done—with—your—wife—yet. It's too soon.”

Just then Annette chimed in, with her wonderful Brooklyn accent: “Oh, what's the harm, Gawge?A few BJs ain'tgonna kill anyone! Jordan's lonely; he needs to have a little fun!” With that, she padded her way across the gleaming terra-cotta floor and placed the coffee and consumables on the kitchen table.

“Annette,” said George, staring at her for a second too long, “he does notneed to be encouraged in this department.” Then he looked at me and said, “I'll see if I can convince Sarah to check into Seafield, but only because I think it would be good for her. In the meantime, I suggest that you don't date for a while. You should stay alone for a year and learn to be by yourself. And keep going to the high schools, giving antidrug lectures; that's the best way to spend your free time right now, being productive and not getting laid.”

I promised George that I would, and for the next four weeks I followed his advice to the letter—almost. The “almost” had to do with an occasional tryst with a young Russian gold digger—or a Natasha,as the newspapers referred to them—courtesy of a casual acquaintance of mine in the Hamptons, a local playboy type who could send a posse of naughty Natashas to all four corners of the earth at the drop of a dime.

Pretty soon, though, that got old too. In fact, by the beginning of April, I decided to close the revolving door for good, or at least for a while, and I settled into a daily regimen of boringness and tediousness, punctuated by weekend visits from the kids and nightly dinners with George and Annette.

Yes, it was boring and tedious, all right, but it also gave me a chance to find myself, to try to figure out whoJordan Belfort really was. The last decade of my life had been unspeakably complicated, and the child my parents had sent out into the world bore little resemblance to the Jordan Belfort of today. So who was I now? Was I a good man or a bad man? Was I a battle-hardened career criminal or an upstanding citizen who'd simply lost his way? Was I capable of being a loyal and loving husband, or was I a habitual whoremonger who would refuse to wear a condom until his dick fell off? And what of my drug addiction? Was the beast merely sleeping or had I kicked the habit for good?

All these questions and many more like them had been ricocheting around my skull as I passed the rest of my winter in exile. The insanity,as I had come to think of it, had penetrated every aspect of my life and had destroyed everything in its path. So this was my chance to finally sort things out, to get to the bottomof things. The only question was, how long would I have?

Not long, as it turned out, because OCD quickly broke the boredom.

It was a Monday evening when he called, and it was a disturbing call to say the least. I was sitting in my living room, on an armchair, when the cordless phone rang. I put down my AA handbook and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hey—it's me,” said OCD. “Are you alone?”

Given the fact that it was the FBI calling, I actually looked around my own living room to make sure that I was alone. “Yeah,” I said, “I'm alone.” And I stood up and started pacing around nervously. “What's going on? How've you been?”

“Busy,” he replied. “Following up on things. Anyway, how ya holding up out there? Slept with any Ruskies lately?”

“Very funny,” I replied, with a healthy dose of nervous laughter. “I'm done with the Natashas for now. I can't take their accents. You know, da, da, da… blah, blah, blah.It gets annoying after a while.” On the advice of Magnum, I had told OCD about the naughty Natashas, lest it come out on the witness stand under cross-examination. So OCD did his own investigation, and, not surprisingly, came to the legal conclusion that there was nothing inherently against the law about getting raked over the coals by gold-digging Russians. “Anyway, what's going on?” I asked. “I haven't heard from you in a while.”

No response at first, just a few moments of sickly silence, the sort you hear when a time bomb ticks down to zero and there's a seemingly endlessdelay before the explosion. Finally he said, “Not much, really, but I need you to wire up against Dave Beall.” More silence. “I know this isn't pleasant for you, but you need to do this.”

“Why?” I snapped. “He's nobody!” And even as the words escaped my lips, I knew how ridiculous they sounded. It had nothing to do with whether or not I had committed crimes with Dave Beall (of course I had, simply because I'd committed crimes with all my friends), and it had everything to do with whom Dave Beall could lead them to.

OCD, calmly: “Who he is isn't what's important; what is important is that I know he's one of your closest friends.” He paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “Listen—I don't take any great pleasure in this, and, believe it or not, neither does Joel. But this is something you have to do. I want you to try to set a dinner meeting with him, okay?”

With a sinking heart: “Yeah. I mean, what fucking choice do I have, right?” I let out an obvious sigh. “When do you want me to call him?”

“There's no time like the present,” said OCD. “Can I make the call?”

I shook my head sadly. “Yeah, what's the fucking difference anymore? Where do you want me to set the meeting?”

“In a restaurant, a quiet one, somewhere on Long Island, but not in the Hamptons. It's too far for me.”

I thought for a moment. “How about Caracalla, in Syosset? It's Italian, small, quiet, good food.” I shook my head in despair. “It's as good a place as any to betray my best friend, you know?”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” said OCD. “If the shoe were on the other foot, he would do the same thing. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” I said, but what I didn't say was that I knew he was wrong. Dave would never betray me. “Go ahead, make the call. Let's get it over with.”

“All right, hold on a second…” Silence for a moment, then two clicks, then: “This is Special Agent Gregory Coleman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The date is April third, 1999, and the time is eight p.m. This is a consensually recorded phone conversation between Jordan Belfort, a cooperating witness with the federal government, and David Beall.” Another moment of silence, then I heard the dull-thudded ringing of Dave's home telephone, and with each ring my spirits sank lower. The moment Dave picked it up, it occurred to me that I was no longer lower than pond scum.

Now I was lower than the mucus that feedsoff pond scum.

*Name has been changed