Текст книги "Catch the Wolf of Wall Street"

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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They both nodded.

I said, “That's what I thought. So, basically, I'll be pleading guilty to the whole ball of wax, which means my fine is gonna be enormous. I'll be totally wiped out”—which would mean bye-bye, Duchess—”starting from scratch again. I don't think I could handle that right now. I've got a wife and kids to think about. I mean, what's better: spending four years in jail, while my family lives in the lap of luxury, or spending a year in jail, while my family wonders where their next meal's coming from?”

“It's not so cut-and-dry,” replied Magnum. “I mean, yes, you'd definitely be pleading guilty to everything. That's the way it works when you cooperate. But, no, you won't be wiped out. The government would leave you with something to live on—maybe a million bucks or so. But everything else would go: the houses, the cars, the bank accounts, the stock portfolios—everything.”

There were a few moments of silence. Then Nick said with great warmth: “You're a young guy, Jordan. And you're also one of the smartest guys I've ever met.” He smiled sadly. “You'll rebuild. Mark my words: You will rebuild your fortune. One day you'll be back on top again, and nobody in their right mind would bet against you.”

“He's right,” added Greg. “If you think this is the end for you, you're seriously mistaken. This is the beginning. It's time to start your life anew. You're a winner. Don't ever forget that.” He paused for a brief instant. “Yeah, you've made some mistakes along the way, some big mistakes. But that doesn't take away from the fact that you're a winner. Next time you'll do things right. You'll be older and wiser, and you'll build your foundation on stone instead of sand. And then no one will be able to take it away from you. Nobody.”

He nodded his head slowly, sagely. “And as far as ratting out your friends goes, I wouldn't be so concerned with it. If the shoe were on the other foot, every last one of them would turn on you. Right now you gotta do what's right for you and your family. That's all that matters. Forget the rest of the world, because they would certainly forget about you.” Now he changed his tone to one of nostalgia. “You know, we used to have a saying in the U.S. Attorney's Office: The Italians sing on Mulberry Street, and the Jews sing on Court Street. In other words, people in the Mafia don't cooperate, they don't ‘sing’ on other mobsters. But it's all a load of crap now. With RICO, the sentences start at twenty years and they go up from there. So the mobsters sing too. The Jews sing, the Italians sing, the Irish sing. Everyone sings.”

He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Anyway, the bigger problem I see with cooperating is Joel Cohen, the assistant U.S. attorney—the AUSA—on your case.” Magnum let out a great sigh. Then, in staccato-like beats, he said, “Joel—Cohen—can—not—be—trusted. I repeat: He—can—not—be—trusted. He—is—a—bad—egg.”

Then Nick chimed in: “Greg's right about that. We've had some bad experiences with Joel in the past. See, the way it works when you cooperate is, the AUSA is supposed to write a letter to the judge, saying how helpful you've been and what a great witness you've been, and so on. Now, Joel, by law, will have to write the letter, but here's where it gets tricky. You see, what he actually writes is up to him. If he wants to stick it to you, he can color the letter in a negative way. Then you're up shit's creek.”

“Well, fuck that!” I muttered. “That's a disaster in the making, Nick.” I shook my head in amazement. “And, no offense, but I don't need the two of you to tell me that Joel Cohen is an asshole. I could tell that just by looking at him. I mean, did you hear that scumbag at my bail hearing? If it were up to him they would nail me to a crucifix.”

“But it's not up to him,” argued Magnum. “In fact, it probably won't even be Joel who writes your letter when the time comes. See, if you cooperate, it'll drag on for four or five years, and you won't get sentenced until after your cooperation is through. There's an excellent possibility Joel will have already left the office by then—joining the ranks of us humble defense attorneys.”

We spent the next few minutes debating the pros and cons of cooperating, and the more I learned about it, the less it appealed to me. No one would be off-limits; I would be forced to cooperate against all my old friends. The only exceptions would be my father, who'd been Stratton's Chief Financial Officer (he hadn't done anything illegal, anyway), and my longtime assistant Janet ^*(who'd done illegal things but was so low on the totem pole that no one would care). Greg assured me that I could get both of them “passes.”

What bothered me most, though, was the thought of cooperating against my ex-partner, Danny Porush, who had been indicted along with me and was still sitting in jail, trying to make bail. And then there was my oldest friend, Alan Lipsky. He was also under indictment, although his case was only partially related to mine. I couldn't imagine cooperating against Alan. We had been best friends since diapers. He was more a brother to me than my own brother.

Just then came an insolent burble from Greg's telephone. His secretary said rather casually, “Joel Cohen is on line one. Would you like to take it or should I tell him you'll call back?”

At that very moment, inside the twenty-sixth-floor corner office of De Feis O'Connell & Rose, you could have heard a pin drop. The three of us just sat there, staring at one another, mouths agape. I said it first: “That rat bastard! He's superseding me already! Holy shit! Ho-lee fuc-king shit!”

Magnum and the Yale-man nodded their heads in agreement. Then Magnum put a forefinger to his lips and said, “Shhhh,” and he picked up the phone. “Hey, Joel, howaya?… Uhn-huhn… Uhn-huhn. Right, well, it just so happens I have your favorite person sitting right in front of me…. Yeah, that's right. We were just talking about what a blatant miscarriage of justice this whole thing is.” Greg winked at me confidently and then leaned back in his seat and began rocking. He was a mighty warrior, ready to take on the insolent Joel Cohen. Magnum could crush him with a single gust. “ Uhn-huhn,” continued Magnum, rocking back and forth. “Uhn-huhn … Uhn-huhn—” And then all at once his face dropped, and he stopped rocking in his fabulous black leather throne, as if the finger of God had descended upon him. My heart skipped a beat right before Magnum said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Joel. Settle down. Don't be doing anything rash here. You can't be serious about that. She's not the sort of– Uhn-huhn… Uhn-huhn… Well, I'll talk to him about it. Don't do anything until I get back to you.”

She? I thought. What the fuck was Magnum talking about! She who? She Janet? Were they after Janet? That made no sense. Janet was merely an assistant. Why would they want her? A visibly shaken Magnum hung up the phone and uttered the five most poisonous words I'd ever heard in my life. He said, without a trace of tone, “They're indicting your wife tomorrow.”

There were a few moments of eerie silence, and then all at once I popped out of my armchair and screamed, “ What!No fucking way! How can they do that? She hasn't done anything! How can they indict the Duchess?”

The Yale-man threw his palms up in the air and shrugged. Then he opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. I turned back to Magnum and said in a tone of ultimate despair, “Oh, shit… Oh, my God… Oh—my—fuc—king—God!”

“Calm down,” said Magnum. “You gotta calm down. Joel's not going to do anything yet. He promised he'd wait until I spoke to you.”

“Spoke to me about what? I—I don't get it. How could they indict my wife? She didn't do anything.”

“According to Joel, they have a witness who says she was in the room with you when you were counting money. But listen to me: The facts aren't really important. Joel doesn't have an interest in indicting Nadine. He made that clear to me. He just wants you to cooperate; that's the beginning and the end of it. If you cooperate, your wife gets a pass. Otherwise, they're going to arrest her tomorrow. It's your call.” With that, Magnum looked at his wristwatch. It was one of those purposely understated, superexpensive jobs, with a chocolate-brown leather band and a pearl-white face. Had to set him back $20,000, I figured, but it was the sort of watch that was supposed to say, “I'm so successful and confident that I don't need to wear a gleaming gold wristwatch to project an image of success and confidence.” Magnum added, “He gave me until four o'clock to get back to him; that's four hours from now. Tell me what you want to do.”

Well, it was plainly obvious that I had no choice. I would have to cooperate now, regardless of the consequences. After all, I couldn't let Joel indict my wife. Not in a million years.

Wait a second!All at once a series of delicious thoughts came bubbling up into my brain, starting with: How could the Duchess leave if she were under indictment too? She would be stuck with me then, wouldn't she? We would be like two peas in a pod. I mean, what man in his right mind would take on the burden of an indicted woman with two children?

Yes, the Duchess might be a world-class piece of ass, but two young children and a federal indictment hanging over her head would make her much less enticing to the average gold mine.

In fact, I would have to say that virtually all gold mines—or at least the more productive ones—would quickly close their shafts to a woman burdened with such dire circumstances. She would become a cautionary tale in her own right, a young woman with more baggage than the lost-luggage warehouse at Kennedy Airport.

So, yes, that was the answer then; there was no other way: I would let the Duchess go down in flames with me. I would let her get indicted too. She would have no choice then but to stay married to me. It was my only logical move. It was my only rationalmove. I looked Magnum in the eye and twisted my lips subversively, and I said, “You call that rat bastard right now and tell him to go fuck himself.” I paused for a moment and watched every last ounce of color drain from his long, handsome face. Then I added, “And then after that,you can tell him that I'll cooperate.” With that, Magnum expelled a giant gust of air, as did the Yale-man. I said, “I mean, I really don't care anymore, even if I end up going to jail for twenty years. I just really don't give a shit.”

It was pure, unadulterated irony. My wife had dumped me in my darkest and most desperate hour, yet I was still willing to fall on my sword to protect her. Talk about the world being upside down.

Magnum nodded slowly. “You're doing the right thing, Jordan.”

“You are,” added Nick. “It'll work out in the end.”

I looked at the Yale-man and shrugged. “Maybe it will, Nick, or maybe it won't. Only time will tell. Either way, I amdoing the right thing. That much I know for sure. Nadine's the mother of my children, and I won't let her do a day in jail, not if I can help it.”

*Name has been changed

CHAPTER 4

A LOVE-HATE RELATIONSHIP

ater that evening, a few minutes before midnight, I was lying beneath my white silk comforter, alone with my thoughts. I felt completely lost, like a man without a country, a man without purpose. And I also felt like a man who had been set adrift into a vast ocean of white Chinese silk. Oh, yes, the Duchess had decorated this room to the nines—in fact, the whole house had been decorated to the nines, but especially this room, which was now fit for a king, and as such a mockery of the fallen Wolf.

What was I now? How far had I fallen? I was under house arrest and being dumped by a gold-digging Duchess: a British Brooklynite who had the face of an angel, the temper of Mount Vesuvius, and the loyalty of a starving hyena.

I took a deep breath and tried to grab hold of myself. Christ, I was a wreck! I sat up and looked around the room. I was stark naked, totally exposed. I crossed my arms, as if embarrassed. I squinted. Jesus, it was dark in here. The only light was coming from that flat-panel TV screen suspended on the wall, above the limestone fireplace. The volume was on mute, so the room was eerily silent. I could hear the sound of my own shallow breathing, as well as the thump thump thumpof my own broken heart.

And just where wasmy dear heartbreaking wife? Well, that was still somewhat of a mystery to me. Supposedly she was in Manhattan, out with the girls. At least that's what the note said-some nonsense about having to attend her friend Gigi's thirtieth birthday party, which I distinctly remembered celebrating three months ago, in June. Or maybe I was just paranoid and the back-stabbing Duchess could still be trusted.

I had found the note lying on the kitchen counter, beneath a $1,400 Winnie the Pooh ceramic cookie jar (a collector's item of some sort, bought at auction), with the words Dearand Loveconspicuously absent from the salutation and the closing. It was like a note between two strangers—one named Jordan, the other Nadine—neither of whom loved or respected the other. Just reading it had sent my spirits plunging even lower.

On a more positive note, however, since leaving Magnum's office I had pretty much come to terms with my cooperation, or at least I'd rationalized it to the point of palatability. Yes, I would provide the government with whatever info they wanted, but I would be clever about it—providing it in such a way as to protect my friends. When necessary, I would feign ignorance; when plausible, I would feign memory lapses; and, most importantly, when I reached a crossroads or found myself at a fork in the road, I would steer the government down the trail that led away from my friends. Hopefully, with a little bit of luck, the people I cared about most would cooperate too, and I would be spared having to betray them.

Meanwhile, the Duchess would be thrilledI was cooperating. One of her chief gripes was that I had put her at risk, and now I could tell her that risk was no longer a possibility. Of course, I would omit the fact that I actually had puther at risk. I was no fool, after all, so what was the point of giving her fresh ammo against me? It would be much more productive to focus on the positive aspects of my cooperation: namely, that I wouldn't have to do even a day in jail and that even after I paid my fine we– we!—would still have enough money left over for the rest of our lives. And while those were small exaggerations—actually, the last one was a fucking whopper—it would be many years before the Duchess found out. So I would worry about it then.

Just then I heard the sound of gravel kicking up in the driveway. The backstabbing Duchess was finally home, ready to inflict more emotional pain on me. A few moments later I heard the front door slam and then some very angry-sounding footsteps ascending the sumptuous spiral stairs. The footsteps didn't seem to belong to a hundred-twelve-pound blond-headed Duchess; they seemed to belong to an agitated water buffalo. I laid flat on my back and braced myself for the torture.

The door swung open and in walked the Duchess, wearing a light-blue wrangler's ensemble. Jesus! Despite the fact that the Duchess had taken a limousine home, she looked like she'd just arrived by stagecoach from the Western frontier. All she was missing was a cowboy hat and a pair of six-shooters. As she moseyed her way over to her side of the bed, I took a moment to regard her. She was wearing a long, stonewashed denim skirt with tiny white cowgirl ruffles on the bottom and a fabulous slit that ran up the front. I wasn't much of an expert on women's skirts, but I had a sneaky suspicion that few women on the Ponderosa could have afforded this one. She wore a short-sleeve light-blue cotton blouse, very low cut in the front and very tight in the waist, accentuating the natural V of her body as well as her surgically enhanced C-cups.

Without saying a word, the Western Duchess reached beneath a burnt-apricot-colored lamp shade on the end table and flicked on the light. I rolled onto my right side and stared at her. She really knew how to put herself together. I couldn't begrudge her that even now.

I looked down… ahhh, the cowboy boots! Those were familiar. They were tan and white, with cherry-red toe caps and sterling-silver tips. I had bought them for her last year, in a fit of euphoria, while I was on a golf trip in Texas. They had set me back $13,000. At the time they'd seemed liked a bargain. Now I wondered.

Just then she cocked her blond head to the right and removed a sterling-silver earring and placed it on the end table with great care. Then she cocked her head to the left and removed the left earring and placed it beside the other. I forced a smile and resisted the urge to say, “Eh, baby, how was prospecting tonight? Find any precious ore?” With great love and tenderness in my voice, I said, “Hey, sweetie. How was Gigi's party?”

“Okay,” she said, with a surprising pleasantness. “Nothing special,” and she turned to face me and nearly lost her balance, at which point I realized that the wrangling Duchess had more to drink this evening than just sarsaparilla. In fact, she was stone-cold drunk.

“Are you okay?” I asked, holding back a smile and getting ready to catch her if she fell. “You need any help, sweetie?”

She shook her head no. With a bit of a wobble, she sat down on the edge of the mattress. Then, all at once, faster than you would know it, she swung her cowboy boots onto the bed, rolled onto her side, and plopped her left elbow down beside me. She rested her left cheek in the palm of her hand and looked into my eyes and smiled. She said, “How'd it go with your lawyer today?”

Very interesting, I thought, making a mental note to thank the Mexican genius who'd invented tequila, as well as the bartender who had been gracious enough to serve the Duchess one too many this evening. This was the closest the Duchess had come to me in almost a week. And she looked rather beautiful right now, in the burnt-apricot glow of the lamp shade. Those big blue eyes of hers, which were now glassier than a mirror, were gorgeous. I took a deep breath to relish her scent, which was an interesting mixture of Angel perfume and premium-grade tequila. I felt a pleasant tingling sensation—a rush of fire in the loins! Perhaps,I thought, perhaps tonight.I felt an uncontrollable urge to jump her bones right now, before she sobered up and started to torture me again. But I resisted the urge and said, “Really good, sweetie. Actually, I have some terrific news for you.”

“Oh, yeah? Whuz that?” she asked, and she began rubbing my cheek with the palm of her hand. Then she ran her fingers through my hair with great tenderness.

I couldn't believe it! The Duchess had finally come to her senses! She was going to make love to me this very fucking instant and then everything would be okay again. It had always been that way with us. Things could be bad for a while, but not much longer than that. In the end, we would always make love and then all would be forgotten.

Should I jump her right now? I wondered. How would she react? Would she be angry with me or would she respect me? I was a man,after all, and the Duchess understood such things. She was wise to the ways of the world, especially when it came to men, and even more especially when it came to their manipulation…

… although to jump her now would not be the prudent thing to do. First I needed to put a good spin—no, a greatspin—on my legal problems. I needed her to feel entirely confident that my gold mine was about to open once more for unfettered ore extraction.

I took a deep breath, coagulating all the loose ends of my bullshit story, and I went for broke. “First of all,” I said, with great confidence, “I know you were worried about all that crap Coleman spewed at you, and I just wanted you to know that none of that– not even one drop of it—was ever a possibility.” And that would be lie number one. “You and I both know that you never did anything wrong”—and that would be lie number two, considering she actually hadwitnessed me counting money, as Joel Cohen had alleged—”and, of course, the government knows that too. Coleman just said that to scare you and to make things difficult for me. That's it.”

She nodded slowly. “I know that,” she replied. “I mean, it bothered me when he first said it, but I never actually believed it.”

You didn't? Hmmm, okay, then!Ignorance is definitely bliss. I nodded in agreement and soldiered on: “Yeah, of course I know. It was all bullshit, Nae”—and here comes lie number three—”the whole damn lot of it. But, either way, it's all a moot point now. You see, Joel Cohen called Greg today; in fact, he called him right while I was sitting in the room, and he told him that what he really wanted—what he was really looking for—was for me to cooperate. That's it.” I shrugged. “Apparently, I know so much about what's going on in the stock market that I could save the government years of heartache, not to mention countless dollars.” Hmmm, I really liked the way that sounded. It made me sound smart, vital, important, altruistic, a necessary participant in the fight against greed and corruption on Wall Street; not like the cooperating rat I was about to become! I decided to milk that line of thinking for all it was worth. “Anyway, Joel said that if I didcooperate, if I was willing to help the government make sense of everything, I probably wouldn't have to spend even a day in jail. That's how valuable the knowledge I have is.” I nodded a single time, wondering if I had shot myself in the foot by using the word probably,so I added, “I mean, I already spent three days in jail, which is long enough, don't you think?” I smiled innocently.

She nodded slowly but remained silent. I noticed a tear running down her cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. A good sign, I thought. Wiping away a woman's tears brought you one step closer to her heart and, for that matter, her loins. It was a biological phenomenon. When a strong man wiped away a woman's tears, she could refuse him nothing.

Emboldened by the Duchess's tears, I continued with relish: “But it gets even better, Nae. You see, if I cooperate, I won't get sentenced for four or five years, and any fine I might”– might– “have to pay wouldn't be due until then. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's gonna be a pretty hefty fine, but it's not something that's gonna wipe us”– us—“out. We'll still be very rich when it's all over.” And there goes the biggest lie of all, the whopper, which was lie number four.

In fact, if the government were to leave me with a million dollars, as Magnum had indicated, the Duchess and I would be broke in three months. But I had rationalized that too, which was why I now added, “But however much money they leave us”– us—“with, it's not like I'm gonna retire or anything. I mean, in a few months from now, once all this commotion dies down, I'm gonna start trading stocks again.” I paused, not quite liking the way that sounded. “I mean honestly, of course. I'm talking big stocks, not small stocks. I'm not going back to all the craziness and everything.” I found myself desperately searching for an exit ramp. “Anyway, I could probably make five or ten million a year just trading for my own account, totally legitimately, without any risk.”

I studied her face for a moment. She seemed to be sobering up a bit. Hmmm, I wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but I sensed a window of opportunity slamming shut. It was time to stop selling the future and to go for the close. I said confidently, “That's it, Nae. That's the whole ball of wax. I know it sounds too good to be true, but that's the way it is. I guess I should just count my lucky stars that the government is so desperate for the information I have.” Now I paused, and I shook my head gravely. “Anyway, the only thing I was really upset about was that I might have to give them information about my friends.” I smiled and shrugged, as if to say, “There's a silver lining here!” Then I said, “But, according to Mag—I mean, Greg, all my friends are going to cooperate too.” I shrugged again. “So in the end that won't really be a factor.” I edged myself closer to her and began running my fingers through her hair.

She smiled and said, “Well, that's really good news, honey. I'm really happy for you.”

You? Did she just say you?.Shit—that was bad! She should be happy for us, not just me! I was about to correct her when she added, “And I wouldn't be too worried about your friends. Other than Alan Lipsky, every last one of them would sell you down the river in two seconds flat. There's no loyalty on Wall Street. You always told me that, right?”

I nodded but didn't say a word. In fact, I had heard enough and spoken enough. Once more, the Duchess and I were back on the same page, which is to say, it was time to attack. I reached over and grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close to me. Then I grabbed her by her cute Western tie and yanked her head toward me.

And then I kissed her.

It was a slow wet kiss, an altogether loving kiss, which ended quicker than I'd hoped, when she pulled away and said, “Stop it! I'm still mad at you.”

It was time to take charge. “I need you,” I groaned, reaching my hand up the slit of her dress, heading for the Promised Land. By the time I reached the top of her thigh, the heat was so terrific I was ready to come on the sheets.

So I pounced, throwing my full weight on top of her. I began kissing her ferociously. She tried to wriggle free, but she was no match for me. “Stop!” she whined, with a hint of a giggle. “Stop it!”

I hung on the giggle and pulled up her denim skirt, revealing her pretty pink vulva with its tiny Mohawk of blond peach fuzz. Ahh, I had always marveled at what a terrific vagina the Duchess had! It was the most delectable vagina I'd ever seen, and considering I'd slept with almost a thousand hookers, my opinion counted for something. But all that hooker business was in the past now. All I wanted was the Duchess—now and forever!

I slowed my tempo a bit, and I looked her in the eyes and said, “I love you, Nae. I love you so much.” My eyes began welling up with tears. “I've always loved you, from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” I smiled at her warmly. “I missed you so much this week. I can't even begin to tell you how empty I've felt.” I pushed her hair back with my hand and went for the close: “Make love to me, baby. Make love to me right now, nice and slow.”

“Fuck you!” she sputtered. “I fucking hate you! You wanna fuck me? Fine—then go ahead and fuck me! Fuck me hard, because I fucking hate you. I hate your guts, you selfish little prick! You don't give a shit how I feel. All you care about is yourself.” She started grinding into me with contempt, purposely keeping out of tempo with me. It was as if she was trying to let me know that, in spite of me being inside her, she still wasn't mine.

I was shocked. And I was devastated. But, most of all, I was upset that she had called me little—a little prick, to be exact. The Duchess knew I was self-conscious about my height!

But I refused to get angry. Instead, I grabbed her cheeks and nailed her with a kiss, holding my lips to hers as I desperately tried to get some rhythm going. But it was difficult. She was moving her blond head from side to side, like an infant refusing a spoonful of applesauce, and she was swerving her hips in an exaggerated circular motion.

With a bit of anger slipping out around the edges, I snapped, “Hold still, Nadine! What's wrong with you!”

Her poisonous response: “Fuck you! I hate you—I fucking hateyou!” She grabbed my cheeks and said, with venom: “Look in my eyes, Jordan. Look in my eyes right now.”

I looked. She continued: “Don't ever forget what went down with this marriage; don't you ever fucking forget.” Her blue eyes were like glassy death rays. “This is the last time I'm ever gonna fuck you. This is it; you can mark my words. You're never gonna have me again, so you better enjoy it while it lasts.” And she started grinding into me with deep, rhythmic thrusts, as if she were trying to make me come, right on the spot.

Jesus Christ! I thought. She'd turned the corner on her tequila high! She couldn't possibly mean what she was saying, could she? How could such a beautiful face spew out such venom? It made no sense. I knew the right thing to do would be to climb off her, to not give her the satisfaction of making me come while she was telling me how much she hated me… but she looked absolutely gorgeous in the burnt-apricot glow of the lamp shade. So fuck it!I thought. It was impossible to figure women out, and if she was genuinely serious about this being my last time, I better make it count or at least make myself come quickly, before she changed her mind and said that the last time was the last time… and with a single deep thrust I tried my best to hit the base of her cervix and… bang!…just like that I came inside her. I screamed, “I love you, Nae!” to which she screamed, “I fucking hate you, you asshole!” and then I collapsed on top of her.

And there we lay for what seemed like a very long time, which turned out to be around five seconds, at which point she pushed me off and started crying hysterically. Her body was shaking volcanically, as she said through terrible, gut-wrenching sobs, “Oh, my God! What did I do? What did I do?” She kept repeating those same four words, as I lay next to her, frozen in horror.

I tried to put my arm around her, but she pushed it away.

Then came more sobs, and then she said something that I would never forget for the rest of my life. “It was blood money!” she sobbed. “It was all blood money!” She could barely get the words out through her sobs. “I knew it all along, and I did nothing. People lost money and I spent it. Oh, God—what did I do?”

All at once I found myself growing intensely angry. It was her reference to blood money, the thought that everything we shared-including my own success—was somehow tainted. It was as if our entire marriage had been a farce, as if nothing around me was real and genuine. I was a man of parts, the sum of which didn't equal a whole. I was surrounded by wealth and beauty and ostentation, yet I felt poor and ugly and hopelessly embarrassed. I longed for simpler days. I longed for a simpler life. I longed for a simpler wife.