Текст книги "Catch the Wolf of Wall Street"

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Now the Yale-man was saying, “… inside-out swing plane, above everything. That's mysecret for keeping the ball in the short grass.” He offered Magnum and me a single nod, to which Magnum nodded back accordingly.

I smiled and said, “You know, my problem with this conversation is that all three of us suck in golf “—I raised my chin toward Magnum—”especially you, Greg. So, if you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you guys would stop fucking torturing me and tell me when I have to forfeit my houses.”

My towering attorney smiled. “Of course: Yourhouse has to be forfeited on January first, and Nadine's the following June.”

“That sucks,” I said. “What happened to four years from now?”

Magnum shrugged. “Like I've always said, Joel is not an easy person to deal with—especially now, while he's getting ready to leave the U.S. Attorney's Office. He wants to extract as much blood as possible before he departs.”

The Yale-man said, “In fact, things were even bleaker yesterday.”

“Indeed,” added Magnum. “As of yesterday morning, Joel wanted Nadine to forfeit the Old Brookville house on the same date as you, but we convinced him to back off because of the children. So, in that sense, it was somewhat of a victory.”

“Yeah,” I said sarcastically, “a victory. And it stillsucks!” I took a deep, troubled breath and let it out slowly. “And how much money do I get to keep?”

“Eight hundred thousand dollars,” replied Magnum, “plus you each get to keep a car, your furniture, and all your personal possessions, and you get to keep the IOUs you listed. Are any of them collectible?”

I took a moment to run them through my mind. There were three, the biggest of which was with Elliot Lavigne, who owed me $2 million. Back in the day, Elliot had been my primary rathole, kicking me back millions of dollars in cash. At the time he had been a garment-center legend, ascending to the presidency of Perry Ellis while still in his thirties. But he'd also been a world-class drug addict, a degenerate gambler, and a serial whoremonger (which was why we'd gotten along so well), and ultimately he had lost everything, including his job. We hadn't spoken since I'd gotten sober, and there was no way, I knew, he could ever pay me back. He was completely broke.

The second biggest IOU was Wigwam's, which was a quarter of a million dollars. Alas, Wigwam was even broker than Elliot, and there was no chance there either. And then there was Dr. David Schlesinger, a Long Island ophthalmologist, who'd married the Duchess's childhood friend Donna. David was a pretty good guy, although Donna was, for the most part, a wench. Nevertheless, he couldpay me back, and I had no doubt that he would. After all, I had lent him $120,000 to start his own medical practice, and now he was raking it in.

Still, the greatest shame in all this was Elliot Lavigne. If he still had money he would definitelypay me back! We'd been like blood brothers, the two of us. I had even saved his life once, after he almost drowned in my pool. Ironically, OCD and the Bastard had never shown much interest in Elliot, despite the cash kickbacks. But that was fine with me; if they didn't press the issue, I wasn't about to bring it up.

I said, “I think one of them is; but it's only for a hundred twenty thousand dollars. The rest are worthless. Anyway, it doesn't really matter. At the rate I burn through money, I'll be broke in six months either way.”

“Well, you gotta cut back,” snapped Magnum. “And you gotta tell Nadine to cut back too! This is no joke, Jordan. It's time to hunker down.”

I shook my head no. “I'm not breathing a word of this to Nadine. As much as I hate her, I don't want to worry her. Anyway, I have more than a year to figure out where she and the kids are gonna live, and, believe me, by hook or by crook I'll make sure it's somewhere beautiful.”

Magnum pursed his lips and nodded, as if he were an oncologist about to give a patient a terminal diagnosis. “Well, unfortunately, you're gonna have to let her know a little bit sooner than you'd like. You see, Joel wants her to sign off on this.”

“Well, that sucks too!” I snapped. “In fact, everything about today sucks!” I shook my head in disgust. “When do I gotta tell her?”

With a hint of a smile: “Today.”

When I first called the Duchess and told her that I needed to stop by to talk to her about something, I was shocked that she didn't just tell me to go fuck myself. She was a Brooklyn girl, after all, and given the nature of our last conversation, to tell me to go fuck myself was the Brooklyn equivalent of saying, “I think it would be best if we communicated through our lawyers for a while.” And then, a few hours later, when I walked through the front door at a little before five and the kids came running into my arms, screaming, “Daddy's here! Daddy's here!” I was even more shocked at how genuinely happy the Duchess seemed over our children's love for me.

She was a complicated woman, and despite all my grudges and resentments, there was a part of me that would always be in awe of her. She had educated herself, improved herself, and, for better or worse, had aspired for perfection in all aspects of her life. In many ways, she was everything I could never be: perfectly gorgeous, utterly self-confident, and shrouded by an impenetrable cloak of emotional armor that protected her from hurt; in other ways, I was everything shecould never be: street-smart, financially self-sufficient, and emotionally vulnerable to a fault.

Perhaps in a different time and place we could have made beautiful music together, for, in the end, it wasn't a lack of love that had gotten the best of us but all that had preyed upon it—the money, the drugs, the jet-set lifestyle, the false friends. And, of course, there was Stratton, the poison tree from which only poison fruit could grow, including the fruit of our marriage. Only the children had made it out unscathed, a fact for which I would always thank God.

We were sitting at the kitchen table, and I had just finished giving her all the horrific details about the forefeitures—the dates, the amounts, and everything else.

Her response shocked me.

“I'm really sorry,” she said calmly. “I know how much that beach house meant to you. Where are you gonna live now?”

I stared at her, astonished. Could she really be serious? I mean, after everything I'd just told her, she was worried about where I was going to live? What about where shewas going to live? And what about the kids?

I was about to lace into her when suddenly it hit me: It wasn't irony; she had simply walked through life's raindrops for so long that she assumed she always would. Everything would end up okay for her, she knew, and, odd as it seemed, I knew she was right.

I forced a smile and said, “Don't worry about me, Nae, I'll be fine. And don't worry about yourself and the kids either.” I looked her dead in the eye. “You'll always be taken care of—no matter what.”

She nodded in understanding, although just what I'd meant by that I don't think either of us knew. With the utmost sincerity, she said, “I know you'll take care of us the best you can. Do you know how long you'll have to go away for?”

“I'm still not sure,” I said. “Joel is leaving the U.S. Attorney's Office, which is a good thing for me, but I'll still have to do a few years, I'm sure.” I shrugged my shoulders, trying to make light of it. “And this is the end of the line, Nae: You're gonna move on with your life and I'm going to fucking jail.” I smiled and winked. “Feel like changing places with me?”

“Nope!” she answered, with a few exaggerated headshakes. “But I promise you that the kids will always know that their father is a good man.” She reached over and grabbed my hand, the way a friend would. “Your kids will always love you, Jordan, and they'll be waiting for you the second you get out.”

I squeezed her hand gently, and then I rose from my chair and walked over to a floor-to-ceiling window at the back of the room. I leaned my shoulder against it and took a moment to relish the beauty of my property. It was gorgeous this time of year. The lawn was as green as any rain forest, and the pond and waterfall looked like a painting. How different things could have worked out. If only I would've done things right.

After a few seconds the Duchess joined me by the window and stared out. “It's beautiful,” she said. “Isn't it?”

“Yeah, it is. It's hard to believe another family's gonna live here one day, you know?”

She nodded but said nothing.

Suddenly a pleasant memory: “Hey—remember what we did the day we went to contract on this house?”

She started giggling. “Yeah! We snuck onto the property and had sex in the backyard!”

“Exactly!” I said, laughing. “Those were some funny days back then, right?”

“Yeah, but they weren't my favorite.”

I looked at her, surprised. “Oh, really? Which were?”

“The first days,” she answered casually. “In that tiny apartment in the city. I loved you somuch back then. If you only knew, Jordan. But you never let yourself trust me, because of how rich you were when we met.” She paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “I want you to know that I was always faithful to you when we were together. I never cheated on you even once! And, well, what happened this morning on the phone”—she stopped and shook her head quickly, as if she was disgusted with herself—”well, it was a bad showing on my part, and I'm sorry for it.”

“So am I,” I said quickly. “It was a bad showing on my part too.”

She nodded. “And I want you to know that I wasn't trying to manipulate you with the Hamptons.” Yeah, right!“I mean, yeah, maybe at the end I was, but not at the beginning. When I first came up with the idea, I thought there was a chance for us.” She paused for a moment. “But then over the last few weeks, well, I knew there wasn't. Too much had happened: too much hurt, too much pain, too many bad memories. I'm not gonna offer you any cheap clichés here, but I think we definitely broke the record for insane relationships, you know?”

I smiled sadly, knowing she was right. “Yeah, I guess we did,” I said, “but it was definitely fun for a while, at least in the beginning.” I perked up my tone. “Anyway, we got two great kids out of the deal, and I'll always love you for that.” I offered her my hand, palm upward, as if she were truly a Duchess. “So, come on, Duchess; why don't we go upstairs and give the kids a kiss? Then I'll get going.” She smiled, then took my hand and off we went– out of the kitchen, through the dining room, through the grand marble entryway, and then up the sumptuous spiral staircase that led to the mansion's second floor.

When we reached the top of the stairs, I turned east, toward the kids’ rooms, and she turned west, toward the master bedroom. We were still holding hands, so we looked like two sailors leaning into opposing winds. I smiled playfully. “What are you doing?” I asked.

She just stared at me, with her lips compressed into a tight line, as if she were a child thinking about doing something naughty. Then she gave her head a tiny jerk in the direction of the bedroom. “Come inside with me,” she said mischievously.

My eyes popped opened like a pair of umbrellas. “What?You want to make love to me now,after I just told you I lost the houses?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yeah, it's the perfect time. I was never really in it for the money! It just seemed…” I narrowed my eyes suspiciously; she backtracked. “Okay, I won't deny that the money definitely helped, but I could have married a lot of rich guys. I chose you because you were cute.And you still arecute!” She winked. “So, come on! Let's do it one last time before we get divorced, okay?”

“You lead, I follow!” I said happily, and a second later the bedroom door was slamming behind us and we were jumping onto the fabulous white silk comforter, with its thousands of tiny pearls.

We began kissing deeply. Such wanton passion! Such sexual ferocity! Like never before!The Duchess smelled so good it seemed almost impossible. I wantedthis woman, to literally possessher, for all eternity.

“I love you,” I groaned.

“I'll always love you too,” she groaned back.

Bitch!I thought. “Me too,” I said lovingly, and we began wriggling out of our shirts, and– yes—the Duchess was braless! And I pushed my bare nipples against her bare nipples and my bare stomach against her bare stomach– and such softness I felt! Such heat!The Duchess was a raging inferno! Overcome by passion! Couldn't even think straight!

Suddenly she broke off our kiss and looked at me nervously. Through tiny pants, she muttered, “I hope”– pant, pant-“you don't think”– pant, pant—“you're sleeping over tonight.” Pant, pant.“I just can't”– pant, pant-“bear the thought”– pant, pant—”ofwaking up to you tomorrow morning!” Pant, pant.

Bitch!I thought. “Of course not.” Pant, pant.“I have a meeting in Southampton”– pant, pant—“first thing in the morning!” Pant, pant.

“Oh, good!” she muttered. “Make love to me”—pant, pant.

And off came our pants, and the Duchess's legs– perfection!So soft they were! So supple! Like never before! Those luscious thighs, those slender ankles, those heavenly hips!My nervous system was on sensory overload, and I loved it.

“Kiss me softly,” moaned the Duchess. “The way you used to…”

Yes, I thought, I would kiss her softly, just the way I used to, and then I would make love to her, just the way I used to, with myself on top and her luscious legs clamped together, for added friction. The Duchess loved it that way!

With great tenderness, I placed my hands on her cheeks and put my lips to her lips, and I kissed her softly, breathing in every last molecule of her. Her lips smelled utterly delicious, utterly frisky-justlike they used to!

So we just lay there, kissing, for what seemed like a very long time.

Finally I broke off our kiss and looked my gorgeous Duchess in her fabulous blue eyes and decided to give it one last college try. “I still love you,” I said softly, praying that she would return my words.

She nodded quickly. “I love you too,” she said. “Now make love to me, sweetie!”

She still loved me!

Then—a shock, as she said, “Wait a second: Let me turn around so we can do it from behind.” Faster than it seemed possible, the Duchess had wriggled out from beneath me and was crouching on her knees now, with her back to me. Then she crossed her arms over her breasts and arched her back, like a cat, pushing her butt out. She said urgently, “Hurry up and grab my arms and hug me from behind!”

Bitch!I thought. She had learned a new trick in my absence!Of all the insults! Who had taught her this… doggie-style cross-armed maneuver? Was it the ponytailed bastard? Or the sleazoid golf pro? Or even worse—the Romanian slime-bucket?

Just then she swung her blond head around and stared at me quizzically. “What are you waiting for?” Pant, pant.“Take me now or lose me forever!”

I stared back at her, speechless.

She smiled coyly. “Oh, come on, silly! You'll like it this way!”

Bitch!I thought. And then I smiled.

We ended up making passionate love that Thursday evening, and, in retrospect, I think we both knew it would be for the last time. Just why it had to happen I would never know, although I suspected it had something to do with closure, which both of us desperately needed. We had been to hell and back together, and now it was time to move on. In some way, I knew, we would always love each other.

BOOK III

CHAPTER 17

THE ART OF SELF-DESTRUCTION

Three Months Later

e were somewhere over Staten Island near the New Jersey border when it first hit me that I wouldn't be making it back to Southampton tonight for curfew. I remember reaching down to my left leg and lifting up the hem of my tan gabardine trousers and saying something like, “Uh, I haven't been totally honest with you, Kiley. This thing on my ankle isn't really a beeper—” and then suddenly I heard this horrific wailing sound and the pilots up front were pointing nervously at the orange lights on the instrument panel of the Sikorsky S-76 helicopter, which was screaming westward at a hundred forty knots with a tail wind to Atlantic City.

Then the wailing stopped. Kiley was sitting to my left, seat-belted to one of the Sikorsky's sumptuous tan leather seats, and she looked on the verge of tears. “I—I've never been in a helicopter before,” mumbled Kiley, wearing a $2,000 red silk minidress that I'd just purchased at a trendy clothing store in Southampton. “Is it supposed to make noises like that?”

“Yeah,” I said casually, “it happens all the time.” I had just met Kiley a few hours ago, so I hardly knew anything about her—other than that she was twenty-two years old, had been raised in Vancouver, British Columbia, and had come to New York to pursue a modeling career, only to have it cut short by an eating disorder, which caused her weight to balloon up and down thirty pounds in either direction. Today she was tipping the scales at a buck-thirty, which was a bit too fleshy for a five-foot-eight-inch model, so Kiley was having trouble finding work. Nevertheless, she was still gorgeous, with perfectly chiseled features, honey-colored skin, full lips, high cheekbones, and liquid brown eyes shaped like almonds.

All at once the helicopter began executing a sharp right turn and going into a steep dive. Kiley's slanted eyes popped open. “Oh, my God!” she screamed. “What's wrong now?Why are we going down?”

I grabbed her hand reassuringly. “I'm not sure,” I said calmly, but what I didn't say was, “Things like this just tend to happen to me. You know, things you usually see only in the movies—like crashed planes, crashed cars, sunken yachts, exploding kitchens, helicopters that need to be pushed into the ocean to make room for air-to-sea rescues—but have no fear, Kiley, because I always seem to make it out alive!”

Just then the copilot turned around in his seat and slid back a thin Plexiglas partition that separated the orange-glowing cockpit from the passenger cabin. With a confident smile, he poked his nose through the slot and said, “We're having some mechanical problems, so we need to make an emergency landing at Teterboro.” He winked at Kiley. “No worries, young lady. Teterboro is only a few miles away. We'll be justfine.” Then he slid the partition closed and turned back around in his seat and started saying something to the pilot.

I looked at Kiley—who up until now had been fairly beaming– and every last drop of color had disappeared from her fabulous skin. So I put my hand on her bare shoulder and said, “Relax, Kiley; I've been through this before and it always ends up okay.” I squeezed her hand again. “Besides, you're only twenty-two years old, and that's no age for a young girl to die!”

She shook her head sadly. “But I liedto you! I'm only seventeen!” And that's when I knew I was fucked.

I was pretty sure that the age for statutory rape differed by state, so as the Sikorsky made its descent into Teterboro Airport, I found myself wondering which state would have jurisdiction over me if I decided to violate Kiley: New York or New Jersey? In point of fact, we had taken off from Southampton, which was in New York, and the legal age there was seventeen, but we were heading to Atlantic City, which was in New Jersey, where the legal age was… I wasn't sure. And that was my problem, because it was there, in a glitzy hospitality suite in Trump Castle Casino, where I was planning to do the evil deed. So what was Jersey's legal age? I wondered.

Obviously this wasn't the sort of question I could just come out and ask the pilots, especially with Kiley right next to me. Upon closer inspection, Kiley now appeared to be in the latter stages of puberty. In fact, that thin coating of fat that I had previously attributed to an eating disorder was now giving off the troubling whiff of baby fat, belonging to a still-blossoming teenager.

Still, none of this was my fault, because when I first laid eyes on Kiley she was standing naked in one of my downstairs showers, and she had hair in all the right places, as well as a set of perky C-cups that looked old enough to vote. And she wasn't even alone! Standing right next to her was anothernaked girl—this one a blue-eyed blonde named Lisa, who, like Kiley, also looked old enough to vote—and the two of them were engaged in a passionate kiss, relishing the final moments of an Ecstasy binge.

Still, the scene wasn't as strange as it seemed—two young models whom I'd never met before, sneaking into my house to take a shower together—because, by mid-July, it was common knowledge in the Hamptons that there was this fabulous house on Meadow Lane where any young model could show up, flash a concupiscent smile, and stay as long as she desired. And while I would be the first to admit that this sort of model-mongering behavior was utterly detestable, I figured with my life on the verge of implosion, I might as well go out with a bang!

So that was how I had decided to pass my final summer on Meadow Lane: model-mongering while the Duchess and I split the kids on alternating weekends.

Chandler, being a daddy's girl, loved the action, although what she enjoyed most was torturing the young models that her daddy had hooked up with—assuring them that they meant absolutely nothing to him and that any restaurant he took them to or any clothing store he bought them a dress in was the same restaurant or store that he'd taken a dozen other girls just like them. Chandler's point being: You're a worthless slut, and someone younger and more beautiful than you will be replacing you next week.

Carter, on the other hand, couldn't have cared less. He was too busy passing his summer in the outdoor Jacuzzi, which, in Carter-speak, was an outdone Hacuddi.And when he wasn't there, he was in the TV room, watching Power Rangers videos, as half-naked models sat next to him and rubbed his bare belly and told him they would do whatever he pleased if he would just lend them his eyelashes for a photo shoot. One day, I knew, Carter would be very upset when he found out that he had waved off all these young beauties because they had interrupted the flow of his beloved Power Rangers videos.

On a separate note, it was somewhere in late July when I began hearing about someone named John. Chandler had brought the name up first, describing him as “Mommy's new friend from California.” John. John. At first I didn't think much of this, although a little voice inside my head said, “This could be trouble.” Not the Duchess having a boyfriend—I was fine with that. What I wasn't fine with, though, was that he lived on the other side of the country. After all, if she were to fall in love with him, she might want to move there.

I didn't know too much about this guy, other than that he was a bit older than me, he was very wealthy (gee, what a surprise),and he owned a large garment-center company in Los Angeles that manufactured children's clothes. I had resisted the urge to have Bo do his thing—deciding, instead, to leave well enough alone. The way I figured it, the Duchess had been doing her fair share of dating this summer, so the chances of her falling in love with John were slim.

The only thing troubling me as of late—besides the fact that I was burning through cash faster than a Latin American country-was how doggedly OCD was now pursuing the Chef. In fact, I had been to New Jersey two times in the last four weeks, trying to get the Chef to discuss our past dealings on tape. But both times he had refused. Yet OCD was certain that eventually he would. He was a born crook, reasoned OCD, and he wouldn't be able to resist the temptation forever.

Ironically, it was because of those two recent trips to New Jersey that I had been predisposed to Kiley's idea of going to Atlantic City. It was around eleven this morning, as I was cooking her and Lisa breakfast, when Kiley had her brainstorm: “Would you take me to Atlantic City one day and teach me how to gamble?” Complicating matters was the fact that I found Kiley wildy attractive, and not just her looks but her personality too. She was bubbly and vivacious—oozing a certain childlike innocence that, at the time, I had chalked up to her Canadian upbringing, rather than the fact that she was still a child.

“So you've never been to Atlantic City before?” I said to her.

“Nooo,” she replied innocently. “Would you take me there?”

In retrospect, I remember thinking that her tone was that of a young child asking her grandpa if he would be willing to take her to the zoo one day. When I asked Kiley how old she was, and she said, “I'm twenty-two; how ‘bout you?” I was inclined to believe her. And that was when I went about calculating the risks of taking an unapproved helicopter trip to Atlantic City while under house arrest.

In the end, I had it narrowed down to two distinct risks: first, leaving New York State without approval from my pretrial-services officer (my PO), and second, the possibility of getting stuck in Atlantic City and violating my twelve o'clock curfew. As to the actual gambling, I wasn't so concerned, because gambling wasn't illegal. I wasn't too concerned that I would have to bring along $50,000 in cash to convince Donald Trump to dispatch a helicopter either. After all, I had twice that much in my bedroom safe, which, by sheer coincidence, happened to be the very cash that I was supposed to have forked over to the government as part of my forfeiture (they simply hadn't gotten around to picking it up yet). So what was the harm, I figured, if I just borrowed a few dollars from them?

None, I thought; so I called the casino, ordered the helicopter, took Kiley clothes shopping, and then took a short-term loan from the federal government and headed for the heliport.

Now, however, six hours later, I was stranded at Teterboro, in a dilapidated hangar, with an underage girl, and about to break curfew. Being in Jersey, I figured, was the least of my crimes.

“Does this mean we're not going?” chirped Kiley.

I looked at my watch and shook my head gravely. “I don't know, Kiley. It's nine o'clock already, and I'm supposed to be home by midnight.”

With a pout: “That's sad.”

“Yeah, it is,” I agreed with a sympathetic nod, and then I thought for a moment, focusing on the fact that my curfew wasn't reallya curfew. Or was it? Well, technically it was, but on a practical level it wasn't, especially on a Sunday evening where a harmless violation (like this) would likely slip through the cracks. Yes, perhaps the monitoring company would place a call to Patrick Mancini, my PO, but Pat was a pretty decent guy, and he would just assume that the bracelet had malfunctioned. I mean, the thing was always malfunctioning, wasn't it? Yes, it most certainly was, and, besides, Pat knewI wasn't a flight risk, didn't he? Yes, he most certainly did, and he was well aware that I wasa cooperating witness with the federal government (on the side of righteousness).

Just then the pilot walked over, smiling. “It's only a fuel gauge,” he said happily. “The good news is that we should have it fixed within twenty minutes.”

Kiley grabbed my hand and started shaking it up and down, as if to say, “Yippee! Yippee! Now we can go to Atlantic City!”

“And what's the bad news?” I said, knowingly.

The pilot shrugged. “Well, we got a late start tonight, so the copilot and I are out of duty time. You have to wait for two fresh pilots to come. They'll be here in about an hour.”

Kiley looked at me, confused. “What does that mean?” she asked sadly.

What I felt like saying was: “It means that this is what happens when you travel with the former Wolf of Wall Street. Anything that can go wrong will gowrong!” But instead I said, “It means that we're stranded here for a while.”

Another pout: “So we're not gonna go now?”

I looked at Kiley and shrugged. “Let me think for a second.” I ran the scenario through my mind again. Well, obviously I couldn't sleep with Kiley; she was just too young. But, on the other hand, I was a very good gambler, so perhaps I could win a few bucks! “Is there a phone around here?” I asked the pilot.

He pointed his finger in the direction of a wall phone.

“Thanks,” I said, and a second later I was leaving a message on Pat Mancini's voice mail—explaining that I was stuck in “the city,” without saying whichcity, and that I would be back either late tonight or early tomorrow morning. Then I hung up the phone and stared at it for a second, wondering if I had just made a big mistake. No!I thought. Patrick had his hands full with murderers and rapists, and I had already made the decision not to have sex with Kiley. And, with that thought, I walked back to Kiley and offered her an avuncular smile. “All right, honey, we're going!”

“Yehhhh!”she screamed, and that was that.

There was no denying that Donald Trump sported the worst hairdo this side of the Iron Curtain, but the bastard sure knew how to make money! In Atlantic City, he owned three casinos: Trump Plaza, the Taj Mahal, and Trump Castle. I preferred the Castle because it had a heliport on the roof, which allowed for quick entrances and exits. And that's important in a town like Atlantic City, where the sheer decadence of it can throw a down-and-out gambler into an emotional tailspin when he's already on the verge of jumping out a window.

But something was bothering me now.

I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned forward and slid open the Plexiglas. “Excuse me,” I said to the evening's second copilot, pointing to the roof of the Castle as it grew smaller in the distance. “Why aren't we landing on the roof tonight?”

The pilot shrugged. “I'm not sure,” he replied. “We were told to land on the pier. That's all I know.”

“Hmmm,” I muttered. “Maybe the roof is closed for repairs.”

“Not that I know of,” answered the copilot, and a few minutes later Kiley and I were sitting in the back of an electric golf cart, with a driver from Trump Plaza behind the wheel. Sitting next to the driver was a sharply dressed casino host, also from Trump Plaza. He had a terrific shock of gray hair and a slick demeanor. I leaned forward and said to him, “I don't get it: When I called information this afternoon, I specifically asked for the number for Trump Castle.”