Текст книги "Catch the Wolf of Wall Street"

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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He smiled a toothy smile. “Well, they must've made a mistake; it happens all the time. Anyway, we're allpart of the Trump family, right?”

“Is everything okay?” asked Kiley. “You seem upset.”

I grabbed her hand and held it. “No, everything is fine, sweetie. It's just a slight mix-up. It's par for the course when you travel with me.”

Kiley giggled like a schoolgirl.

“By the way,” said the sleazy casino host, “I saw your old friend Elliot Lavigne down here. He was knocking ’em dead at the tables!”

“You mean gambling?”I said incredulously.

“Yeah; why are you so surprised? He isa compulsive gambler, no?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah, of course he is. But last I heard he was broke.”

The host shook his head and smiled. “Not anymore!” he said knowingly. “He's making millions again. He's got some hip-hop line called uh, Fat Farm, or maybe Fubu.”

Kiley, the budding fashionista: “Oh! I know Phat Farm!”

I looked at Kiley and couldn't resist: “Why've you been to a fat farm?”

She released my hand and smacked me in the shoulder. “It's not that kind of fat farm, wise guy! The fatis spelled P-H-A-T.And it's slang, for cool or good-looking. You know, like you'd say, ‘That girl is phat!’or ‘This casino is phat!“

“I think she's right,” said the casino host.

“I think so too,” I agreed, and I smiled at Kiley, who was fairly beaming. Then she said, “Who's Elliot Lavigne?”

The casino host and I exchanged a look. “Oh, he's just an old friend of mine,” I said casually– who happens to owe me two million fucking dollars, which I can now collect!“He's kind of a colorful guy.”

“Oh,” said a clueless Kiley. “He sounds very nice.”

With that, the host and I exchanged another look, and five minutes later Kiley and I were walking through the casino arm in arm, like two young lovers. She was looking this way and that, staring at all the gaming tables and slot machines and mirrors and strobe lights, with the sort of awestruck expression that you would normally find on the face of a five-year-old girl from Dubuque, Iowa, who was walking through Times Square for the first time.

With a confident gait, I led her to a craps table.

There were six people surrounding it, all bearing the desperate expression of craps degenerates. “Watch this,” I said to Kiley, and with a devilish smile and a knowing wink I opened my blue Nike gym bag and poured out $50,000 in cash on the craps table. Then I looked up at the towering Box-man, a six-and-a-half-footer with a handlebar mustache that seemed to defy gravity, and I said, “Chips, please!”

There was a moment of silence while the rest of the table looked on, astonished. Oh, yes! The Wolf was back! And wait until they see him gamble!Ohhh… I was good, all right! Like James-fucking-Bond!

The towering Box-man smiled and said, “Give Mr. Belfort twenty thousand dollars to play with while we count him out.” And just like that I was handed twenty thousand in chips.

Kiley seemed impressed. “How do they know you?” she whispered.

Oh, please! I thought. Everyone knows me in these parts! I used to be the Wolf of Wall Street, for Chrissake! “That's nothing,” I said confidently. “Watch me take these bastards to the cleaner's!” And I quickly started gambling.

Five minutes later, most of my chips were gone and Kiley was saying, “Why do they keep taking your chips away?”

I shook my head sadly, as I stared at $18,000 of the government's money now being stacked on the wrong side of the craps table. “I'm having a bad run,” I mumbled. “I'll have to get even with the other thirty.”

Just then the towering Box-man walked over holding a clipboard. “Sign here, Mr. B.” And he handed me the clipboard and then a pen.

With a sinking heart, I signed a $50,000 chit, which looked like a certified bank check. Then I took a deep breath and handed it back to him. The Box-man nodded a single time. “I just need a copy of your driver's license,” he added, “and you're good to go.”

“No problem,” and I reached into my back pocket and… “Eh, shit!” I muttered. “I forgot my damn license.” I looked up at the Box-man and smiled. “I'm sure you guys got a copy on file, right?”

He shook his head. “Actually, we don't, Mr. B. You never gambled here before.”

“Hmmm,” I mumbled, “you're right. Let me think… How about calling the Castle and have themfax over my license? That should do the trick, no?” I looked over at Kiley and winked. The Wolf of Wall Street was a masterat working through problems!

Alas, the Box-man began shaking his head again. “It doesn't work that way. Once you show ten thousand in cash, we need to see ID. That's the law.”

I cocked my head to the side and said, “So let me get this straight: You take fifty thousand of mycash, you count it, you give me chips, you let me gamble away twenty grand, and now you won't give me a chance to win my money back?”

The Box-man shrugged. “That's about the size of it, Mr. B.”

Mr. B? Mr. B!What a fucking mockery! If this guy weren't twice my size, I would sock him one—right in that obnoxious fucking mustache! I took a deep breath and said, “All right, can I speak to your boss, please? There's gotta be some way to resolve this.”

“Absolutely!” said the Box-man, happy to pass the buck.

Five minutes later, not only was his boss there but he had five other Suits accompanying him, and they all looked like they belonged in the Corleone crime family. The Suits turned out to be very nice, very helpful, and very patient, but after a great deal of chin-scratching, the Suit of all Suits—namely, the shift manager– finally said to me, “I'm sorry, Mr. B, but there's nothing I can do, other than send a few bottles of champagne up to your suite for you and the pretty young lady to enjoy.” He winked.

“All right. I'll just take my chips and cash out.” I looked over at Kiley. “Come on, sweetheart, it's time to go now.”

“Okay,” she said, oblivious. “Where are we going?”

With a demented smile: “First we're going to cash out, and then we're flying home.” I looked at the shift manager. “Will you do me a favor and call the chopper for us?”

“It's too late,” he replied, seeming to fight back the urge to smile. “The chopper is already on its way back to Long Island. But don't worry: We have a beautiful suite for you, and we're gonna send you up some Dom Perignon and beluga caviar.”

“Oh, good!” chirped Kiley. “I love beluga caviar!”

I stared at her, speechless.

“Okay, then!” mused the shift boss, feeling my pain. “Let's head over to the cage, so you can cash out.”

Yeah, I thought, it's time to put this nightmare to an end.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I nearly screamed at the sixtyish old hag on the other side of the bulletproof glass. “How could you not give me my money back?”

“I'm very sorry,” came the toneless response, through a series of shiny aluminum slits. “I can't cash you out unless you show ID. It's the law.”

I was baffled. Shocked. In utter disbelief.

Here I was, standing inside “the cage,” which was the size of a bathroom at Denny's, accompanied by an underage girl, a shift boss who was probably a shill for the mob, and a stack of $32,000 in multicolored casino chips, which I was now stuck with because this old hag on the other side of the bulletproof glass was a stickler for details. It was mind-boggling.

I turned to the shift boss and said, “You gotta do something here. This—is—not—right.” And then I clenched my teeth and shook my head slowly, as if to say, “Someone's gonna pay for this when all is said and done!”

The shift boss threw his palms up in the air and shrugged. “What can I do?” he said innocently. “The lawris the lawr.”

With frustration in my heart, I looked at Kiley and said, “Do you know why this shit happens to nobody but me?”

She shook her head nervously.

“Because I bring it on my-fucking-self. That's why! I'm a glutton for fucking punishment.” With that I turned back to the bulletproof glass and stared at the old hag suspiciously. Then I rolled my neck, like a man on the brink. “Listen,” I said logically, and I leaned forward and placed my elbows on a black Formica counter-top on my side of the glass. “I'm a sane guy, usually, so let me just give you a recap of the night's events, then you tell meif I deserve to get my cash back, okay?”

The hag shrugged.

“Fine,” I said, “I'll take that as a yes,” and then I went about telling her my tale of woe—starting with the malfunctioning helicopter and finishing with the forgotten-license debacle, while carefully omitting all references to my ankle bracelet, my spurious phone call to Patrick Mancini, Kiley's age deficiency, my interest-free loan from the federal government, and lastly (but not leastly) the fact that I was out on bail and wasn't authorized to be in Atlantic City in the first place. I said, “I think it's pretty obvious that I am who I sayI am. So why don't you just cash me out and let me go in peace, okay?” I smiled my most reasonable smile at the hag. “Is that too much to ask?”

The old hag stared at me for a few seconds longer than good manners called for. Then came her toneless response, though the slits: “I'm sorry. I can'tcash you out unless you show ID!It's the lawr.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I thought that's what you would say….” And those were the last words I said to the old hag that night. In fact, those were the last words I said to anyone that night, with the exception of Kiley, who turned out to be fine company for an ill-fated trip like this. Of course, I never laid so much as a finger on her, and, in retrospect, it had less to do with the statutory-rape clauses and more to do with my own sense of right and wrong. After all, the way I had chosen to pass my last summer on Meadow Lane was an embarrassment. I knew that better than anyone, but I just couldn't seem to control myself. It was as if I were determined to self-destruct—no, it was as if I neededto self-destruct.

Perhaps I was thinking that if I literally ran myself into the ground—burning through every possession I had, both physical and emotional—then I could somehow turn back the clock to a time before Stratton, before the tainted tree had sprouted. Maybe. Or maybe I had just completely lost my mind.

Either way, there were certain lines that even Icouldn't cross: One had been Dave Beall, and another had been Kiley. And while the two were entirely unrelated, each in its own way had allowed me to hold on to one of my last vestiges of self-respect.

When I arrived back in Southampton the next morning, I called Kiley a cab, kissed her on the cheek, and then sent her on her way. I knew that one day I would run into Kiley again and that I would probably kick myself in the butt for not taking advantage of her that Sunday evening. After all, you don't come across girls like Kiley every day, especially in the real world, and especially if you're a guy like me, with one foot in the slammer and the other in the poorhouse.

At this particular moment, I was sitting on a club chair in my living room, staring out at the Atlantic Ocean and trying to make sense of it all. It was almost noon, and Patrick Mancini hadn't called yet, which meant that he never would. In short: I had gotten away with it.

Then the phone rang.

Oh, Jesus!I thought. I'm busted! As fast as lightning, I began racking my brain for a cover story. There had to be some explanation … I was kidnapped… I had been visiting my brother in Montclair, New Jersey, and lost my way… I was scoping out locations for my next meeting with the Chef… Yes!

The phone kept ringing.

I picked up the cordless. “Yeah?” I said, in the tone of the resigned and doomed.

“It's your attorney,” said my attorney. “Are you alone?”

With righteousness: “I swear to GodI never touched that girl, Greg! You can call her yourself and ask her!” I suddenly realized that I didn't even have Kiley's phone number. In fact, I didn't even know her last name! She was just Kiley– the child.

“What are you talking about?” asked Magnum. “What girl?”

“Forget it,” I muttered. “I was just fucking around. What's going on?”

“I got a very disturbing phone call from Joel Cohen this morning.”

My mouth immediately went dry. “About what?”

“He says you may have violated your cooperation agreement. He wants to meet with you first thing tomorrow morning.”

I felt a wave of panic rising up my brain stem, accompanied by despair. If I hadn't been sitting, I would've fallen over. Remain calm, I thought. You've done nothing. Nothing!“That's impossible!” I said confidently. “Did he say how?”

“Not specifically, but I got the impression that he thinks you alerted someone to your cooperation. Any idea what he's talking about?”

Alerted.That was a strange word to use. What did it mean in this context? To alert, to let someone know that I was cooperating? Yes, my cooperation was supposed to be secret, but there were still some people who'd had to know, like my estranged wife, for one, and my parents… and George… but no one else; not even Bo had been alerted– alerted!Had I told any of my friends? No. The Blow-Job Queen? No. Any of the naughty Natashas? No, not one. I hadn't told a single soul, in fact. So I was in the clear.

Feeling very confident, I said, “No, I don't, Greg. I haven't alerted anybody. I promise you that. Joel is barking up the wrong tree here.”

“That's fine,” he said calmly. “You have nothing to worry about, then. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding. We'll clear it up first thing tomorrow.”

“I'm sure it is,” I said quickly. “Where does he want to meet?”

“Downtown, at FBI headquarters. I won't be there, though. I have to go out of town on a deposition. But have no fear; Nick will be with you.”

“That's fine,” I said. “Nick is a good man.” And, besides, I thought, when you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.

Thank God.

CHAPTER 18

THE UNTHINKABLE

ith my shoulders squared, my chin held high, and the overstarched Yale-man walking beside me, I entered the debriefing room and prepared for the worst. Immediately, three things struck me as odd—starting with the fact that all four of my captors had shown up for the day's festivities, namely the Bastard, OCD, the Mormon, and, alas, the Wicked Witch of the East, whom I hadn't seen in close to a year. All four were sitting on one side of the debriefing table, waiting for the Yale-man and me to take seats across from them.

The second oddity was that everyone was dressed formally, including OCD, who seldom was. My male captors still had their suit jackets on, ties knotted to the top. Court attire. The Yale-man and I also wore suits, as did the Witch, who sported a black-on-black polyester power suit, which, like the rest of her wardrobe, was in desperate need of alterations.

And the third oddity—the most disturbing oddity of all—was that as we went about exchanging opening pleasantries, I noticed a conspicuous absence of them. The Bastard shook my hand limply and said nothing. The Mormon shook my hand firmly and said, “How's it going, guy,” using the sort of glum tone that a college coach would use before he cut a player from his team and revoked his scholarship. OCD shook my hand robustly—a bit toorobustly, in fact, as if he were a kind Roman general, sending one of his soldiers into a gladiator pit filled with lions. And the Witch wouldn't even shake my hand.

Then we took seats.

“Okay,” snapped the Bastard, “let's get down to cases, then,” he calmly said, “Michele…” and he extended his hand toward her, palm upward. The Witch nodded once and handed him a thick legal file she was holding. Then she placed her tiny hands on the desktop and began twirling her thumbs at warp speed.

I felt my heart skip a beat.

With great care, the Bastard laid the file down in front of him. Then he stared at it. It was closed, held that way by a light-brown thread that was looped around a thin cardboard disc the size of a dime. And the Bastard just kept staring.

I looked over to the Yale-man, confused. He rolled his eyes and shrugged, as if to say, “It's just theatrics. It means nothing.” I nodded in understanding and looked back at the Bastard, who was still staring at the file—theatrically.

Finally, doing a near-perfect imitation of the spooky, stone-faced government agent from The Matrixnamed Agent Smith, the Bastard slowly unwound the light-brown thread at a perfectly even rate and in perfectly even circles. When he was finished, he slowly opened the file and stared at a document on top of the stack.

Still looking down, he said in the spooky tone of Agent Smith:

“Mr.Belfort: You've pled guiltyto just about every type of securities fraud we have a law for.” True,I thought. “Stock manipulation. Sales-practice violations. Free-riding. 10B-5 violations. Currency violations”—he slowly looked up—”and, of course, moneylaundering.” He slid the document to my side of the conference table. “Are you familiarwith this document, Mr.Belfort?”

I stared at it for a moment and heard Agent Smith say, “Why don't you have Mr. De Feisexamine it for you—so there's no mistake.”

Eager to please, the Yale-man leaned over and studied the document for a moment. “It's your plea agreement,” he whispered in my ear.

No shit, Sherlock!It says it right here on top!

The Yale-man came to my rescue: “It's his plea agreement, Joel.”

“I'd like to hear Mr. Belfortsay that,” snapped Agent Smith.

“It's my plea agreement,” I said tonelessly.

Agent Smith nodded once, then looked back down at the file and began staring again. After a good ten seconds, he grabbed a second document from the top of the stack and slid it over to me. Then he looked up. “And do you know what this document is, Mr.Belfort?”

I studied it for a moment. “It's my cooperation agreement.”

He nodded. “That's right. And on the bottom of page one, you'll see a sentence highlighted in yellow. Will you please read that out loud.”

“The defendant agrees to be truthful and honest at all times.”

The Yale-man seemed to be running out of patience: “What's your point, Joel? Are you saying that he hasn't been truthful and honest?”

The Bastard leaned back in his seat and smiled thinly. “Maybe, Nick.” Then he looked at me and said, “Why don't youtell us,Jordan? Have you been truthful and honest?”

“Of course I have!” I replied quickly. “Why wouldn't I be?” I looked around the room and all four of my captors were staring at me, expressionless.

The Witch: “You're saying you never tried to deceive us, not even once.”

I shook my head no, confident there was no way they could have already found out about Atlantic City. After all, it had just happened last night. Okay– twonights ago, I thought. But, either way, I had always been truthful besides that… unless– Dave Beall! The note!No! It couldn't be! Not in a million years! I pushed the thought out of my mind. Don't jump to conclusions. He would never rat me out. No upside for him. And I had protected him. Saved him. Alerted him. Alert! Alert!

“Is there something you wanna tell us?” said OCD, crossing his arms beneath his chest.

“No!” I replied forcefully. Then, not as forceful: “I mean, of course not. I just wasn't sure what you wanted me to say about… uh, honesty.” I looked at my captors one by one, my eyes settling on the Bastard. “And then, uh, truthfulness,” I felt compelled to add, although I had no idea why.

He seemed to smell blood. “Let me get more specific,” he said patiently. “Have you ever told anybody that you were cooperating?”

A knife through the heart! Must bluff itout! “Yes,” I said confidently.

“Who?”

“My parents, for one. Or two, you might say.” I smiled at my joke. “Is that a crime?”

The Bastard didn't smile. “No,” he replied, “that's not a crime. Who else?”

“Uhhh”—my mouth was going dry—”I told my wife, of course”– my lips seemed to be vibrating—”because I had to tell her. I mean, I had to tell her for a lot of reasons. She had to sign off on the forfeitures, for starters”– suddenly, a brainstorm!—”and maybe sheslipped it to one of her friends, by accident.” As in Laurie Beall, if you catch my drift, who then told Dave Beall, which makes all of this one giant misunderstanding. “I mean, I don't know; I never stressed to her to keep it quiet. Maybe I should've. Is that a problem?”

The Bastard shook his head. “No. I think your wife is smart enough to know what's at stake here. Anyone else you told?”

Remain calm!“George,” I said confidently.

The Bastard looked at OCD, who said, “It's his sponsor from AA.” Then OCD shook his head back and forth, as if to say, “George is clean.”

Finally, the Yale-man stepped in. “Can we cut to the chase here, Joel? It's obvious you think Jordan told someone he was cooperating; so why don't you just tell us who it is? Then we can get to the bottom of it.”

The Bastard shrugged, ignoring the Yale-man's words with such callous indifference that it seemed he wasn't even giving him credit for going to Yale. Then he flashed me a hideous smile and said, “Have you ever passed anyone a note, Jordan?”

Good Lord! Worst fears confirmed!Can't think. Must stall for time. And deny. “You mean, have I ever passed anyone a note—ever? Like, uh, since public school or since, uh, when do you mean? Since college?”

“Since you started cooperating,” said OCD, saving me from my own nonsense.

“No,” I shot back. “Or, well, maybe, actually. I mean, I have to think about that, because it's, uh, an important question.” I paused for a moment, desperate to flee. How many FBI agents were in the building? Too many. But this might be my only chance! OCD might slap the cuffs on me at any moment, in this debriefing room. The Bastard would snap his fingers and point to my wrists and OCD would whip the cuffs out so fast my head would spin! But could they do that without a judge? Maybe. Probably. Definitely!I needed to speak to the Yale-man. But, no—if I asked for privacy they'd know I was guilty. Bad choice. Must bluff it out. Deny! Deny! Deny!

I blundered on: “Well, there was a time in New Jersey, when I was with Gaito and Brennan, if that's what you mean. After we played golf I wrote the name of a stock on a scorecard, and I passed it to Dennis. But it's on the tape. You can check it.”

“This is a waste of time,” sputtered the Witch. “We know you're lying to us. We could never use you as a witness.”

“Which means no 5K letter,” added the Bastard.

The Witch: “And according to my calculations, you're facing upward of thirty-five years.”

Now the Bastard: “But if you come clean with us right now, maybe there's a chance. Maybe.” He looked at me stone-faced. “I'll ask you one last time, and that's it. Have you—ever—passed– someone—a—note?”

The Yale-man to the rescue: “I want to speak to my client in private before this goes any further.” He grabbed my arm. “Come on; let's go outside for a second and have a talk.”

My moronic response: “No, it's all right, Nick.” I shook his arm off me. “I have nothing to hide. I haven't done anything wrong here. I swear to God. I haven't passed anyone a note, and I'm willing to take a lie-detector test.” Yes, I could pass a lie detector. Sharon Stone had done it in Basic Instinct…although she wasn't lying. But, still… they still might not know! It could be a fishing expedition! Not a shred of proof.… or.… did I take the note or did Dave take it? Not certain. But don't come clean. Can't come clean!To come clean is to die. Besides, maybe they don't even know it's Dave? If they knew for sure they would just come out and say it. They're trying to bluffa confession! No two ways about it!

The Bastard's last words: “Okay, then, so you never passed anyone a note. Fair enough,” and with that, he shrugged his shoulders and closed the file. Then he said to the Yale-man: “I'm sorry, Nick. I can't use your client as a witness; he's not credible. If he lies to us here, he'll lie in front of a jury.”

On cue, the Witch rose from her chair—only to be stopped by the booming voice of OCD, who shouted, “This is all crap!” He glowered at the Witch. “Sit down a second, Michele!” Then he glowered at me. “Listen,” he said in a tone he'd never used with me before. “I know exactlywhat happened. You went out for dinner with Dave Beall, and you slipped him a note saying, Don't incriminate yourself! I'm wired! Thenyou left the restaurant and lied to my face, telling me that you did the best you could.” He paused and shook his head, but it wasn't in disgust. He was disappointed in me. I was his star cooperator and I had let him down, perhaps even embarrassed him.

There were a few moments of silence, then he said, “I've always been straight with you, since day one, and I'm telling you right now—with no bullshit—that if you don't tell the truth about this, Joel's going to break your cooperation agreement and you're gonna spend the next thirty years in jail. And if you docome clean, he still might break it and you'll stillgrow old in jail.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But I've never lied to you before, and I'm not lying to you now. You have to come clean or there's no chance.”

The Yale-man nearly jumped out of his chair. “Okay!” he said, in a voice just below a scream. “I want five minutes with my client—alone! And I want it right now.” Then he softened his tone a bit. “Will everybody pleasewait out in the hallway while I confer with my client!”

“Of course,” said the Bastard. “Take as long as you'd like, Nick.” On the way out, OCD locked eyes with me, and he nodded slowly. Do the right thing,said his eyes. And then he was gone.

“So I assume you did this,” stated my attorney.

I looked around the debriefing room, at the bare windowless walls, at the cheap government-issue desk, at the cheap black armchairs, and at the empty pitcher of water off to the side, and I found myself wondering if the room was bugged.

I looked at the Yale-man and mouthed the words: “Is it safe to talk?”

The Yale-man stared at me, incredulous. After a few seconds, he said, “Yes, Jordan, it's safe to talk. Everything we say is privileged.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Well, I guess you've never been to the movies before. It's the oldest trick in the book: The cops leave the room and wait for a confession. Then they run back inside and say, ‘Gotcha!’”

The Yale-man cocked his head to one side, the way you do when you're looking at someone who's just lost their mind. Then he said, “This room is notbugged. I worked in the U.S. Attorney's Office for many years, doing just what Joel does, so you can trust me on this. Now, did you pass Dave Beall a note?”

Deny! Deny! Deny! “Whatif I did?” I asked aggressively. “I mean, I'm not saying I did, but since they think I did, what if I did?”

“Then we have a serious problem,” he replied. “Joel could break your cooperation agreement—which means you'd be sentenced without a 5K letter.”

Remain calm! It's your word against his!“That's bullshit, Nick! How can they prove I passed Dave Beall a note? I mean, I'm saying I didn't do it, and they're saying I did. And even if Dave is cooperating, who's to say he'snot the one who's lying?” I shook my head righteously. “I mean, really! They can't hold back my 5K letter without having proof, right?”

The Yale-man shrugged. “It's not so cut-and-dry. If they think you're lying they can still withhold it, although I doubt that's what's going on here.”

“What do you mean?”

“My guess is that they dohave proof, or at least they think they have proof; they wouldn't be coming on so strong otherwise.” He paused for a moment, as if lost in thought. After a few seconds, he said, “Okay, let's just assume for a second that you didpass him the note. Where would you have been when you passed it to him?”

Unbelievable!I thought. Even now, at the very moment of my doom, I couldn't help but marvel at the twisted nature of the U.S. legal system. The simple fact was that if I came clean with my attorney—telling him that I didpass Dave Beall the note—then he could no longer represent me if I continued to lie. So, instead, we had to speak in “hypothetical terms,” so my attorney could try to find out where I was most vulnerable. Then he would help me mold the best bullshit story possible that was consistent with the known facts.

“I would have probably been in a restaurant,” I replied.

“And why would you say that?”

“Because that's where the meeting in question took place.”

He nodded. “Okay, and what was the name of the restaurant?”

“Caracalla. It's on Long Island, in Syosset.”

“And was the restaurant crowded?”

I knew what he was getting at. “No, there were only a handful of people there, and none of them was an FBI agent. I'm certain of it.”

The Yale-man nodded in agreement. “You're probably right about that. You've been cooperating for a while now, so I'm sure Coleman trusts you.” He paused for a moment, while his last few words hung in the air like mustard gas. Yes, I had betrayed OCD's trust. He had always been straight with me and I had fucked him over royally! But, still, I had acted like a man. I had maintained my self-respect. And this is what happens!

The Yale-man continued: “Okay, so for argument's sake, let's just assume that you didpass him the note but that no one saw you. Would anything have been said on tape that would sound incriminating—meaning, would Dave Beall have reacted to the note? You understand what I'm saying?”

“Yeah, I do”– and what do you think, I'm stupid? I didn't just pass him the note without warning!-“but I'm sure that that's not it. I mean, if I was gonna take a risk like that, I would have been very careful about it. I would have looked around the restaurant to make sure no one was watching, and then I would have sent him a signal—like maybe putting my finger to my lips or something like that. Anyway, there's nothing on that tape out of the ordinary, except that Dave didn't incriminate himself. But that's not so unusual, is it? I mean, I've had four or five meetings with Gaito and hehasn't incriminated himself. So it's really my word against Dave's, no?”

“I hear what you're saying,” reasoned the Yale-man, “but there's something not adding up here.” He paused for a moment. Then: “Let me ask you this: If you had passed him a note, would you have taken it back afterward or would he have kept it as a souvenir?”