Текст книги "Catch the Wolf of Wall Street"

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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In any event, I assured the Duchess that I would be home soon-two months at the most—and, while I didn't say it, my tone of voice so much as said, “So don't be thinking of moving to California anytime soon, lady!”

For her part, both her words and her voice betrayed nothing. She said she was “really sorry” that I had gotten thrown in jail, yet she seemed no more or less sorry than if I had told her that I'd just lost my house keys and was forced to call a locksmith.

That aside, we decided that there was no point in saying anything to the kids. At the ages of six and four, they would be easy to fool—foolbeing synonymous with protect.Besides, what was the point in worrying them when I would be home so soon? Hopefully, I prayed, I would.

The Duchess promised to accept all my collect calls and not to trash-talk me to the kids. I believed her on both counts, not because I thought she felt a grain of compassion toward me but because I knew she felt it for the children. And that was fine; when you're in a position like mine, you accept your victories without questioning motives. Then you say thank you.

When I spoke to the kids, I kept it short and sweet. I told them I was traveling on business, which they both found very exciting. Neither of them asked when I would be coming home, simply because they assumed it would be soon. At Carter's age, the concept of time didn't mean much. He measured things in half hours, which was the average length of a cartoon; anything beyond that was considered “long.”

Chandler, however, was another story. She was in first grade and knew how to read (not too well, thank God!), so she couldn't be fooledfor long. Eventually—within a month, perhaps—she would begin to smell a rat; then her well-deserved nickname of CIA would complicate things. She would start to investigate– eavesdropping, asking pointed questions, checking for lies, omissions, and contradictions. In essence, she would become the quintessential nosy six-year-old girl, a concerned daughter who missed her Daddy and wouldn't stop digging until she got to the bottom of things.

With that in mind, before I hung up I told her that my travels might take me to some very faraway places—fantasticplaces, I said-just like those two silly Frenchmen, Phileas Fogg and Passepartout, from the movie Around the World in 80 Days.We had watched it together many times, and she had always found it fascinating, especially the different ways they'd traveled.

“It'll be great!” I said to her. “You can watch the video with Gwynnie and see all the great places while Daddy's visiting them. In fact, it'll be just like we're visiting them together!”

“You're going to all the same places as Passepartout?” she asked wondrously.

“Absolutely, thumbkin! And I think it might take me the same amount of time it took them.”

“Eighty days?” she sputtered. “Why would it take you eighty days? They rode on an elephant, Daddy! Can't you take an airplane?”

That little devil! She was too clever! I had to cut this conversation short. “Well, I guess I could, but that might take the fun out of it. Anyway, just watch the video with Gwynnie, and we'll talk about it then, okay?”

“Okay,” she said happily. “I love you, Daddy.” Then she blew me a big kiss into the phone.

“I love you too,” I said warmly, and I blew her a kiss back. Then I hung up the phone, fought back the tears, and went to the end of the line and waited my turn again. Ten minutes later I was dialing Southampton.

First I heard KGB's voice: “Alloa?” Then the recorded voice of the operator: “This is a collect call from a federal prison. If you wish to accept, please press five now; if you do not wish to accept, press nine or hang up the phone; if you wish to block calls from this number permanently, please press seven-seven now.” And then there was silence.

Oh, Jesus Christ! I thought. KGB couldn't understand the instructions! I screamed into the phone: “Yulia! Don't press seven-seven! I won't be able to call you back! Don't press seven-seven!” I turned around and looked for a friendly face. A towering black man was next in line. He was staring at me, amused. I shook my head and said, “My girlfriend's a foreigner. She doesn't understand the message.”

He smiled warmly, exposing a conspicuous absence of central incisors. “Happens all the time, big-man. You better hang up before she presses seven-seven. If she does you're”—beep, beep,went the phone—”fucked.”

Just then I heard a loud click.With a sinking heart, I held up the phone and stared at it quizzically. Then I turned to the towering black man and said, “I think she pressed seven-seven.”

He shook his head and shrugged. “Then you're fucked.”

I was about to hang up when he said, “You got another number at the house?”

I nodded. “Yeah, why?”

He motioned to the touch pad. “Call back, then; it don't block the whole house, just that line.”

“Is it okay?” I asked nervously. “I thought it's one call at a time.”

He shrugged. “Go call your girl. I got nothin’ buttime.”

“Thanks,” I said. What a terrific guy! First Ming the Merciless and now the Towering Black Man! These people weren't so bad, were they? Especially this guy! He was a true gentleman. I later found out he was facing twenty years for extortion.

I turned around and dialed the phone again, and this time she got it right. Her first words were: “OhmyGods! Maya lubimaya! Ya lublu tibea!”

“I love you too,” I said softly. “Are you hanging in there, honey?”

“Hanging where?” she asked, with a confused snuffle.

Jesus! I thought. In spite of everything, it was enough to make you crazy. “I mean, are you doing okay?”

“Da…”she said sadly, “I, I okay.” Then: “Oh, oh… ohmyGods…I… ohmyGods…” and she started sobbing uncontrollably. Try as I might, I couldn't help but find comfort in her sobbing. It was as if with each sob, with each tear, and with each gooselike snort she was reaffirming her love for me. I made a mental note to count her “I love yous” each day. When they started to diminish, I would know the end was near.

Today, however, the end was definitely nowhere in sight. The moment she stopped sobbing, she said, “I don't care how long it take, I wait for you forever. I will not go out of house until you are home.”

And, true to her word, that was exactly what she did.

As my first week behind bars came to a close, she was there every time I called Southampton. According to pod rules, you could speak as long as you wanted on each call, and sometimes we would speak for hours at a time. It was rather ironic, I thought, considering we never spoke that much when I was on the outside. Our relationship had been mostly about sex; when we weren't having sex, we were eating or sleeping or arguing over whose history books were more accurate.

Now, however, we didn't have such arguments. We seemed to agree on everything—mostly because we avoided all subjects even vaguely related to history, politics, economics, religion, grammar, and, of course, the moon. Instead, we spoke of simple things, like all the wonderful dinners we'd shared together… all those fires on the beach… and how we had made love to each other all day long. But, most of all, we spoke about the future—meaning, ourfuture– and how once all this was over we would get married and live happily ever after.

And when I wasn't speaking to KGB, I was reading book after book, playing catch-up after years of entertaining myself with sex, drugs, and rock and roll. For as long as I could remember, I had despised reading, associating it with boredom and tediousness rather than wonder and pleasure. I viewed myself as the product of a misguided education system that stressed reading “the classics,” which, for the most part, were boring and outdated. Perhaps if I had been forced to read Jawsand The Godfatherinstead of Moby-Dickand Ulysses,things would have turned out differently. (Always looking to place blame somewhere else.)

So I was making up for lost time now, averaging nearly a book a day, and writing three letters as well—one to KGB and one to each of the kids. Of course, I would call the kids each day to tell them that I loved them and that I would be home soon. And while I hated lying to them, I knew it was the right thing to do.

As expected, Carter was easy to deceive. We talked about whatever Disney movie he was currently obsessed with and then exchanged “I love yous.” Our conversations lasted no more than a minute, at which point he returned to the blissful ignorance of childhood.

Chandler, however, was a different story. Our average conversation would be more than fifteen minutes, and if she was especially talkative it would last for close to an hour. Just what we could talk about for so long I'm still not sure, although as the weeks dragged on I noticed her becoming more and more obsessed with Passepartout. In essence, she was using the movie to keep track of my progress, the way an adult crosses off days on a calendar.

She kept saying things like, “Passepartout did this, Daddy, and Passepartout did that, Daddy,” as if I could somehow learnfrom Passepartout's mistakes and accelerate my voyage around the world. With the help of Gwynne, she had pegged January 10 as my arrival date back in the United States from Yokohama—just like Passepartout. However, if she could help me figure out a way to travel faster or simply avoid having an accident, then perhaps I could be home for Christmas.

So when I told her I was in Paris, she said, “Be careful when you take off in your hot-air balloon, Daddy! Passepartout had to climb on top of hisballoon, and he almost fell off!” I promised that I would.

And when I told her I was heading to India, she said, “Be careful when you're riding on your elephant, Daddy, because Passepartout got captured by headhunters! He had to be rescued.” And from there the subject would turn to something completely innocuous—her new friends in school, something she'd watched on TV, the toys she wanted for Christmas. Never once did she bring up John Macaluso or, for that matter, her mother. Whether this was by accident or design I wasn't quite sure, but I could sense that she was trying to protect my feelings.

By mid-November, Alonso had finally agreed to take another shot in front of Gleeson. The only problem was that he needed to get clearance from the new chief of the criminal division, a man named Ken Breen (Ron White had switched sides too, becoming a defense lawyer). Breen was currently in trial and couldn't be disturbed.

That made no sense to me; after all, it couldn't take Magnum more than fifteen minutes to make a presentation to Ken Breen. Bo had secured all the necessary affidavits, and it was crystal clear that the only thing I had been guilty of was stupidity. I said to Magnum, “I don't care how busy someone is—they always have fifteen minutes to spare for something important.” Magnum explained that it was a matter of protocol. When an AUSA goes to trial, it's like a prizefighter stepping into the ring, and between rounds he doesn't talk to his best friend. All he cares about is knocking out the other prizefighter.

And just like that, the possibility of being home for Thanksgiving vanished like a fart in the wind. Fortunately, I hadn't really expected it, so I wasn't overly disappointed. Yes, it would have been nice, of course, but it had been such a long shot that I hadn't been foolish enough to get my hopes up.

As I quickly found out, expectations could be either your best friend or worst nightmare when you're behind bars. A man facing twenty years hangs on to the hope of winning an appeal; when he loseshis appeal he hangs on to the hope of parole; and when he gives up on that—and his life seems totally worthless and no longer worth living—he finds Jesus.

I fell into a unique category of ultrashort-timers, a detainee whose downside was measured by a matter of months. Worse came to worst, Magnum assured me, Gleeson would let me out by spring, simply out of mercy. However, if we were to file our motion just before Christmas, he couldn't imagine John denying it. He was a sympathetic man, Magnum promised, and he would be willing to give me a second chance.

Fair enough, I thought. I would have to spend Thanksgiving in jail. I dialed Old Brookville on Tuesday morning of Thanksgiving week. The date was November 23. As always, I dialed with a smile on my face, anxious beyond words to hear the voices of my children. Alas, on the second ring, I heard: “I'm sorry, the number you have called has been disconnected. If you have reached this recording in error, please hang up and try your call again. No further information is available.”

At first I didn't hang up the phone. I kept it pressed to my ear. I was simply too astonished to move. And while my brain desperately searched for answers, my gut didn't have to: My children had moved to California.

Two days later, it came as no surprise when the Duchess called my parents and left her new contact information on their answering machine, and both the area code and the zip code belonged to Beverly Hills.

Without losing my temper, I wrote them down. Then I hung up the phone and headed for the back of the line. There were seven people ahead of me, so I had a few minutes to think, to figure out the precise string of curses to utter, the appropriate threats to make, and anything else a man in my position—meaning a man who had no power whatsoever over anyone or anything, including himself—could say.

I would call her a bitch and a gold digger and a… who was I kidding?If I called her any of those things, she would press seven-seven and cut off all phone communication! Not to mention the fact that she could pluck my letters out of the mailbox and cut off all written communication as well. My complete lack of power was utterly enraging! Yet what enraged me most was that, deep down, I knew she was right.

I mean, what was she to do? I was in jail and the money was running out. She had bills to pay, kids to support, and the roof over her head was on the cusp of forfeiture. And then there was John Macaluso waiting in the wings, like a knight in shining armor. He had money, a mansion, and, by sheer coincidence, he happened to be a nice guy to boot. He would support her and take care of her, and he would love her.

And he would take care of the kids.

And what about the kids? What was best for them? Should they grow up on Long Island in the dark shadow of my legacy? Or would it be better for them to make a fresh start in California? Of course, my kids belonged with me, or at least nearme. Of that much I was certain. But where did Ibelong? What was best for me?

Having little choice, I did what I had no doubt many men who'd been unfortunate enough to be a prisoner in Pod 7N had done before me: I went back to my bunk and pulled the covers over my head.

Then I cried.

CHAPTER 26

A NEW MISSION

March 2000

inally—freedom!

Fresh air! Freeair! The blue dome of the sky! The orange ball of the sun! The glorious phases of the moon! The sweet smell of fresh flowers! The even sweeter smell of fresh Soviet pussy! And to think I had taken all these things for granted! How foolish of me!Life's simple pleasures were all that mattered, weren't they? I had been to hell and back and had survived.

So it was that I emerged from the Metropolitan Detention Center on a chilly Monday morning, with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step—and with every aspect of my life in a complete fucking shambles.

Much could change in four months, and, in my case, much had: My kids were living in California; Meadow Lane was in the hands of the government; my furniture was in storage, my money was running out, and, to add insult to injury, I was wearing an ankle bracelet with restrictions soDraconian that I couldn't even leave my house, except to see the doctor.

I had rented a sprawling duplex apartment on the fifty-second and fifty-third floors of the Galleria Building, an ultraluxury glass-and-concrete tower that rose up fifty-seven stories above Manhattan's Park Avenue and 57th Street. (Why not be locked up in style? I figured.)

The building was an upscale haven for Eurotrash—of both the Eastern andthe Western variety. From the West they came from places like Romaand Genevaand Gay Paree,and from the East they came from countries of the former Soviet bloc—mobsters, most of them, who also kept homes in Moscow or St. Petersburg, when they weren't on the run. Not surprisingly, KGB fit in perfectly here, and one of her many Russkie friends had been kind enough to rent us this fabulous spread.

It was back in early December when Magnum asked me what address I wanted to be released to upon Gleeson approving the bail application. Meadow Lane wouldn't work, he explained, because it was due to be forfeited by year's end.

Given my circumstances, my options were few: To buy a home would be ridiculous, and to stay in Southampton would be even moreridiculous. What with the kids living in Beverly Hills and KGB's heart belonging to Manhattan, there was no point to living in the middle of nowhere. Moreover, I needed to stay close to the U.S. Attorney's Office, because, much to my chagrin, the Chef had refused to cooperate and was threatening to take his case to trial; if he actually did, I would be spending many nights burning the midnight oil at the U.S. Attorney's Office in preparation.

Yet, as troublesome as I found the Chef's decision, it played a distant second fiddle to my troubles with Chandler, who since mid-February had been beside herself with emotion. Eighty days had come and gone, and I hadn't made my way around the world yet. She knew something was wrong, and my excuses had run out weeks ago.

“Where are you?” she kept whining. “Why won't you come home? I don't understand! You promised! You don't love me anymore….”

And that was when the Duchess and I made peace with each other. We had exchanged hardly ten words since that horrific Wednesday morning, but we had no choice now. Our daughter's suffering eclipsed our mutual disdain for each other.

The Duchess told me that Chandler had been upset for months, keeping a stiff upper lip on the phone only for my benefit. She had cried on Thanksgiving Day and hadn't stopped crying since. Something had to be done, said the Duchess. Our strategy of protectionhad backfired on us. I suggested that she call Magnum to tell him what was happening, which she did—and Magnum headed down to the U.S. Attorney's Office yet again, this time beggingfor action. Enough delays! he pleaded. This was no longer about Jordan Belfort; it was about a child, a child who was suffering.

And just like that it happened: Motions were made, hearings were held, details worked out, and on the last Friday in February, Judge Gleeson signed the order for my release. From there, Magnum immediately called the Duchess, who immediately called Gwynne, who immediately jumped on a plane to California. She landed on a Saturday, spent two nights at the Duchess's new Beverly Hills mansion, and then boarded an early-morning flight back to New York, with the kids in tow. She was due to land at five p.m., in exactly three and a half hours from now.

With that thought, I took a deep, anxious breath and knocked on the gleaming walnut front door to Apartment 52C. I had been here once, and it was absolutely gorgeous inside. A grand black marble entryway led you to a mahogany-paneled living room with paintings affixed to the walls. The ceiling was twenty feet above a black Italian marble floor. Yet, as beautiful as the place was, it was also one of the saddest apartments in all of Manhattan—for it was here, in this very apartment, where Eric Clapton's four-year-old son had accidentally fallen out a bedroom window. I had been reluctant to rent it because of that, but KGB had assured me that the apartment had been blessed by a priest and a rabbi.

Just then the door opened, but only a foot. A moment later I saw a familiar blond Soviet head pop through the gap. I smiled warmly at my favorite communist and said, in a Russkie accent, “Open door now!”

She pushed the door all the way open, but instead of throwing her arms around me and showering me with kisses, she just stood there with her arms folded beneath her breasts. She was wearing a pair of very tight jeans. The denim was fiercely prefaded, the knees and thighs having the appropriate number of rips and holes in them. I wasn't an expert on women's jeans, but I knew that these had to cost a fortune. She wore a simple white midriff T-shirt that looked soft as mink. Her feet were bare, and she was tapping her right foot on the marble floor, as if she were debating whether or not she still loved me.

Feigning insult, I said, “Well, aren't you going to give me a kiss? I havebeen locked up for four months!”

She shrugged. “Come get if you want.”

“Fine—I'll get,you little minx!” And all at once I charged her, like a hormone-raged bull. She gave up her pose and started running.

“Help!” she screamed. “I being chased by capitalist! Help– Polizia!“

A curved mahogany staircase at the center of the living room rose up to the floor above, and she took the first three steps like a world-class hurdler. I was trailing a good five yards behind her, distracted by the sheer opulence of the place. The entire rear wall was plate glass, shoving the most awesome view of Manhattan in your face. Horny as I was, I couldn't help but admire it.

By the time I hit the stairs, she was already sitting on the top step, her long legs hanging open with complete insouciance. She was leaning back casually, with her palms resting on the hardwood floor behind her. She wasn't even a bit out of breath. When I reached the step beneath her I dropped to my knees, huffing and puffing. Having been locked up for so long, I was in a weakened condition. I ran my fingers through her hair, taking a moment to catch my wind. “Thanks for waiting,” I finally said. “Four months is a long time.”

She shrugged. “I am Russian girl. When our man sits in jail we wait.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips—softly, tenderly—and I pounced!

“I gotta make love to you right now,” I groaned. “Right here on the floor,” and before she knew what hit her, she was flat on her back and I was on top of her, grinding my jeans into her jeans, pelvis to pelvis. I kissed her deeply– passionately!

Suddenly she turned her head to the side and I was kissing her chiseled cheekbone. “Nyet!”she whined. “Not here! I have surprise for you!”

Asurprise, I thought. Why couldn't she just master definite and indefinite articles? She was so close to perfect! Perhaps there was a course she could take, a book she could read. “What kind of surprise?” I asked, still out of breath.

She started wriggling out from beneath me. “Come,” she said. “I will show you. It is in bedroom.” She grabbed my hand and started pulling me up.

The master bedroom was less than ten feet from the stairs. When I saw it, I was speechless. Dozens of lit candles were scattered throughout the room. They were everywhere, on the dark-gray carpet… on all four sides of the black lacquer platform bed… on the matching lacquer headboard, with its gently curved top and gold-leaf trim… and then lined up end to end on the twenty-foot-long windowsill at the far wall. Plush red velvet curtains blocked every last drop of sunlight from entering. The lights were off, and the flames flickered brilliantly.

On the king-size bed was a royal-blue Italian-silk comforter stuffed with so much goose down that it looked as soft as a cloud. We hit it with a giggle, and I quickly maneuvered myself on top of her. In less than five seconds we were out of our jeans and moaning passionately.

An hour later we were still moaning.

At precisely five p.m. the doorman called and said that I had three visitors downstairs. The adult was waiting patiently, he said with a chuckle, but the children weren't. The boy had run past him and hit the elevator button, and he was still hitting it at this very moment. The girl, however, hadn't passed him; she was standing in front of him right now, and she was eyeing him suspiciously. From the sound of his voice, she seemed to make him nervous.

“Send them up,” I said happily, and I hung up the phone, grabbed KGB, and walked downstairs to the fifty-second floor and opened the front door. A few moments later I heard the elevator doors slide open. Then the familiar voice of a little girl: “Daddy! Where are you, Daddy?”

“I'm here! Follow my voice!” I said loudly, and a moment later they turned the corner and were running toward me.

“Daddy's home!” screamed Carter. “Daddy's home!”

I crouched down, and they ran full speed into my arms.

For what seemed like an eternity, none of us said a word. We just kissed and hugged and squeezed one another for all we were worth, while KGB and Gwynne looked on silently. “I missed you guys so much!” I finally said. “I can't believe how longit's been!” I started nuzzling my nose into their necks and taking tiny sniffs of them. “I need to smell you guys to make sure it's you. The nose never lies, you know.”

“It's us!” insisted Chandler.

“Yeah,” added Carter. “It's us!”

I held them at arms’ length. “Well, then, let me take a close look at you. You don't have anything to hide, right?”

I pretended to study them. Chandler was as beautiful as ever. Her hair had grown out quite a bit since the summer and went down past her shoulder blades now. She was wearing a fire-engine-red corduroy dress held up by two thin shoulder straps with tiny red bows on them. Beneath it she wore a white cotton turtleneck and white ballet tights. She was a perfect little lady. I shrugged and said, “Okay—I'm convinced. It's you!”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I told you!”

“What about me?” snapped Carter. “Is it still me too?” With that he rolled his head from side to side, offering me both sides of his profile.

As always, he was all eyelashes. His hair was a luxuriance of platinum-blond waves. He was dressed in jeans and sneakers and a red flannel shirt. It was hard to imagine that we had almost lost him as an infant. He was the picture of health now, a son to be proud of.

“Is it him?” Chandler asked nervously. “Or is he a robot?”

“No, it's him, all right.” They ran back into my arms and started kissing me again. After a few seconds, I said, “Aren't you guys gonna give Yulia a kiss? She missed you guys too.”

“No!” they shot back in unison. “Just you!”

Well, that wasn't good! I knew KGB was sensitive to such things. It had something to do with the great Russian soul, although just how, I hadn't the slightest idea. “Oh, come on,” I said, in a leading tone. “Shedeserves a kiss too, no?”

“Nooooooo!” they sputtered. “Only Daddy!”

Now Gwynne chimed in: “They just miss you so much they can't ged enough a you!Ain't that sweet?”

I looked up at KGB. She seemed insulted. I wanted to mouth the words: It's only because they miss me!But I knew she couldn't lip-read English. (She barely spoke the fucking language, for Chrissake!)

“This is okay,” she said, with a bit of a chill. “I will take suitcases upstairs.”

Upstairs, we walked down a long narrow hallway, at the end of which were two small bedrooms. One had been converted into a library; the other had two twin beds in it. As Gwynne and KGB went about unpacking the kids’ suitcases, the three of us sat on the maroon carpet, making up for lost time. There were many hints of Meadow Lane in this room—dozens of Chandler's favorite dollies lined up along the windowsill, Carter's sprawling wooden train set snaking its way around the carpet, his blue Thomas the Tank Engine comforter on one bed, Chandler's $2,200 pink-and-white Laura Ashley comforter with its white lace trimming on the other. Chandler was already busy arranging her dollies into a perfect circle around us, while Carter inspected his trains for possible damage from the move. Every so often, KGB would look down at us and smile coldly.

“Okay,” I said, trying to break the ice, “here's what Yulia and I have in store for you this week. Since we missed a whole bunch of holidays together. I figured—I mean, wefigured—we should make up for lost time by celebrating them now!” I paused and cocked my head to the side in an attitude that implied logic. “Better late than never, right, guys?”

Carter said, “Does that mean we get more Christmas presents?”

I nodded. “It most certainly does,” I said quickly. “And since we also missed Halloween, we're gonna get dressed up tomorrow night and go trick-or-treating!” With the exception of me, I thought. I would be faking a backache tomorrow night, lest I step foot out of the apartment and find myself back in Pod 7N the next day.

Chandler said, “Will people still give us candy now?”

“Of course!” I said, and no way!I thought. In this building you would have a better chance of seeing God. The Galleria was the sort of ultrapretentious snobitoriumin which you could travel up and down in the elevator a thousand times and never see a child. In fact, in the entire history of the building, two young mothers had never bumped into each other and said, “Oh, my God! It's so good to see you! Let's arrange a play date for our kids!” Changing the subject, I said, “Anyway, we also missed Thanksgiving and Hanukkah and—”

Chandler cut me off. “We get more presents for Hanukkah, right?”

I shook my head and smiled. “Yes, wisenheimer, we get more presents for Hanukkah. And we also missed Christmas”—Carter shot me a suspicious look—”which, as Carter previously said, you will definitely get presents for”—Carter nodded once and then went back to his trains—”and then, last but not least, there's New Year's Eve. We're going to celebrate them all.”

On Tuesday night we all wore costumes—including KGB, who, to my complete shock, broke out her Miss USSR sash and rhinestone tiara, while Carter and Chandler looked on, astonished. My costume, a garden-variety Western cowboy with a hat, a holster, and a semirealistic pair of toy six-shooters, was far less inspiring and not nearly as sexy. The children did the usual: Carter dressed up as a blue Power Ranger, and Chandler dressed as Snow White. Thankfully, our downstairs neighbor was nice enough to play along and give the kids candy.