Текст книги "Catch the Wolf of Wall Street"

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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“Yeah, I think it is. I'll do what I can to help you, but you have to be patient for a while. The next year is going to be hectic; there are trials pending, indictments looming; a lot of things are still up in the air. But there should be a window toward the end. From a logistical standpoint, though, I don't know how much sense it makes to move before you do your time. I mean, what are you going to do: rent a house and then go to jail right after you rent it?”

I smiled and winked. “You bet your ass I am! Before I go to jail, I want my kids to know that I officially moved out to California; this way, they'll know I'll be coming back there when I get out. And I want to spend my last night of freedom with them in a house that's ours, not in a hotel. And we're all gonna sleep in the same bed that night, one of them under each arm.” I paused for a moment, relishing the thought. “That's how I want to spend my last night of freedom.”

Just then the door swung open, and in walked OCD. He took a few suspicious sniffs and then looked at the metal wastepaper basket, where Alonso had tossed his cigarette. Then he looked back at Alonso and said, “So how far did you guys get without me? It's getting kinda late here.”

With great enthusiasm, Alonso said, “No, we're still in the same spot. We got sidetracked.” Alonso compressed his lips, suppressing a cackle.

I suppressed my own cackle as the last traces of color left OCD's face.

Unlike Law & Order,where the excitement is heart-palpitating and the tension is so thick you can literally cut it with a knife, the real-life happenings in a federal courtroom are quite the opposite. Judge Gleeson, for example, sits high on his bench, sometimes looking interested, sometimes looking bored, occasionally looking amused—but always in complete control. There are no outbursts or arguments or people questioning the wisdom of his decisions or anything that might cause him to rise out of his chair and lean forward over his vast desk and point his finger and scream, “You're out of order, Counselor! Now sit back down or I'm holding you in contempt!”

I testified for three days—three unremarkable days—during which I found Fischetti to be fairly competent, but not overly so. Oh, he looked pretty spiffy, in his $2,000 gray silk suit and fancy gray necktie, but that was about it. His lines of questioning seemed boring and long-winded. If I had been sitting in the jury box, I would have fallen asleep.

Alonso, however, had been brilliant: organized, eloquent, persuasive, thorough. He had left Fischetti nowhere to go but in circles, double-talking and triple-talking, and the more he talked, the guiltier his client seemed. Danny testified too, as did a handful of others, although just who and how many I wasn't sure. The less I knew, the better, explained Alonso. I was not on trial, after all; I was only a witness.

A month later, I was sitting in my Swiss hunting lodge beneath the outraged moose's head when a call came in from an even more outraged OCD. “It's a mistrial,” he sputtered. “I can't fucking believe it! How could that jury not convict? It makes no sense.”

“Did you poll the jury afterward?” I asked.

With disgust: “Yeah, why?”

I said, “Well, let me guess, there was only one holdout, right?”

Dead silence at first, then: “How the fuck did you know that?”

“Just a hunch,” I said. “And you want to hear my second hunch?”

“Yeah,” he replied cautiously.

“The holdout was that bastard in the front row, the one with the handlebar mustache, right?”

“It was, actually,” said OCD. “You're just guessing,though, right?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, and I told him my thoughts—namely, that while I had no proof of it, this very mistrial had the Blue-eyed Devil's fingerprints all over it.

“No shit!” he snapped. “You really think so?”

“Yeah, I really do. Again, I have no proof, but, I don't know—I mean, did you see Gaito just sitting there so calm, cool, and collected? He looked almost smugabout the whole thing, and Gaito is not a smug man. If anything, he's humble. Maybe I'm crazy, but the whole scene just struck me as odd, especially that juror; he seemed disinterested, like he'd already made up his mind beforehand.”

OCD agreed—as did Alonso when I shared my thoughts with him a few minutes later, via conference call. Still, there was no way to prove it, and Alonso refused to investigate, considering it to be the act of a sore loser. Besides, he hadn't actually lost;a mistrial simply meant that Gaito would have to stand trial again, which he did, precisely six months later.

And during those six months, from December 2000 to May 2001, I burned through most of the cash I had left, as well as what little patience I had with KGB. She, I was certain, held me in as much contempt as I held her. Unfortunately, I'd never been good at getting out of relationships, and, apparently, neither was she. So we remained engaged, passing our days having angry sex and bitter arguments, the latter of which had to do mostly with moon landings and such.

Sadly, Gaito was convicted this time, with the jury reaching a verdict in only a single day. I was home when I got the news, and at that very moment I felt like the lowest scum on earth. I had betrayed a friend, who would now be going to jail for the better part of a decade because he refused to betray one of his friends.

Danny, meanwhile, had already gone to jail; in fact, he never even had a chance to testify at the second trial. He had gotten himself arrested in Florida on an unrelated charge—something about telemarketing fraud with sports memorabilia—and Gleeson remanded him in early April.

When the summer came, I blew what few dollars I still had left on the kids. That was appropriate, I thought, considering they were the only good thing in my life, anyway. And when I kissed them good-bye on Labor Day, I cried inwardly, because I knew I wouldn't be seeing them again for a long time. In spite of Alonso keeping his word—getting me off house arrest and granting me unrestricted travel to California—I could no longer afford to go there.

That, however, was about to change.

CHAPTER 28

FROM OUT OF THE ASHES

t was less than a week after 9/11, as the country readied for war, when my bad luck streak finally ended. I was glued to the TV set when an old friend called from out of the blue and started asking me for advice about something he kept referring to as the refi boom.

Home-mortgage rates had just fallen to record lows, and Americans were refinancing in droves.

“Can you do me a quick favor?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “What is it?”

“I need you to write me a cold-calling script. There's a fortuneto be made telemarketing for refis right now.”

Interesting, I thought, but that was all I thought. I was so down on my luck at this point that his words, in regards to my own plight, blew past me like a gust of wind. “All right,” I said. “Tell me a little bit about your business, and I'll write you one this afternoon.” And, with that, he went about explaining the ins and outs of refinancing to me.

It was elegantly simple. Virtually all homeowners currently held mortgages with rates between eight and ten percent, while today's rates were hovering near six percent. So all a mortgage broker had to do was secure a new loan (at the lower interest rate) to pay off the old loan, and a person's monthly mortgage payment would plummet. And while there were some minor costs involved—the so-called closing costs—you could roll them into the new mortgage by making it slightly larger than the old one, which meant no out-of-pocket fees for the borrower. Better still, the closing costs were a mere pittance compared to the long-term savings, which could be hundreds of thousands of dollars, depending on the size of the loan.

“Hmmm,” I muttered, “it sounds pretty basic. You got leads to call?”

“Yeah, I bought a list of homeowners who are paying eight percent or higher. I'm telling you—it'll be like taking candy from a baby!”

“All right,” I said. “Give me a few hours, and I'll e-mail you a script.” Then, as an afterthought: “And why don't you send me over a few leads while you're at it to test it out with—just to make sure it flows.”

And that was how it started.

He e-mailed me the leads, I wrote a script, and halfway through my first sales pitch, a very animated Haitian woman cut me off in mid-sentence by saying, “This sounds too good to be true! When can you come over to do the paperwork?”

Right this damn second!I thought. Although, not wanting to sound like a desperate salesman, I replied, “Well, it just so happens I'm going to be in your area tomorrow”—I looked at her address and noticed she lived in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn, a dangerousplace. Why would I be in her area? What plausible explanation?– “refinancing one of your neighbors,” I quickly added. “I can be there around noon. Does that sound okay?”

“Perfect!” she answered. “I'll make snacks.”

The next day I found myself driving through the war zone of east Brooklyn, marveling at how a lack of money can make a man brave. The woman's house was a two-story frame affair on a grimy two-way street. From the outside it looked like a crack den. Inside, it smelled like boiled fish and mildew. There were no less than twelve Haitians living there.

She offered me a seat at her turd-green Formica kitchen table, where she immediately began serving me beans and rice and boiled fish—refusing to talk about her mortgage until I cleaned my plate. Meanwhile, I kept hearing an ungodly shriek coming from one of the upstairs bedrooms. It sounded like a small child. “Is everything okay up there?” I asked, forcing a smile.

She nodded slowly, knowingly, as if to say, “Everything is just as it should be.” Then she said, “That is my grandson; he has the fever.”

Thefever? What did she mean by that? From her tone of voice she seemed to be implying that foul play, in the form of supernatural forces, was involved. “Well, I'm sorry to hear that,” I said sadly. “Did you call a doctor?”

She shook her head no. “I am all the doctor he needs.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine. Obviously this woman had not attended medical school; she was a female witch doctor, or Moomba, as the phrase went. Whatever the case, once the Moomba and I finally got down to business, I grossed $7,000 in commission in less than thirty minutes and saved her $300 a month in the process. Or at least that's what I tried todo. What ended up happening was slightly different.

The Moomba flashed me a smile, which exposed a gold central incisor, and she said, “I do not give a shit about lowering my mortgage payment, Jordan. I just want to take cash out of my house.” She winked at me. “You know, a little mad money?Didn't you ever get the urge to spend a few dollars?”

Her name was Thelma. I smiled and held back from saying, “Well, Thelma, there was this one time when I was high on Quaaludes and decided to extend my yacht to make room for my seaplane!” Then I said, “How much cash would you like, Thelma?”

As I would soon find out, Thelma's answer was typical of many American homeowners, the majority of whom would eventually fall behind on their mortgage payments and end up in foreclosure. She so much as said, “Listen, Jordan, get me as much fucking cash as possible, and I don't give a shit if the rate's exactly the same as it is now. I just want to redecorate my home and travel to exotic places and buy a new sewing machine and a flat-screen TV and a twin-engine speedboat, and then I want to pay off the balances on my credit cards so I can run them back up again in six months and refi once more!

“And, by the way, Jordan, if you can figure out a way to get me approved for one of those newfangled adjustable-rate mortgages, where the payment is supercheap for the first few years and then explodes to a level that I won't possibly be able to afford, then that's what I want too. I'll worry about the payment when I'm living in a homeless shelter!”

Ahhhh, the refi boom. It was everything my friend had made it out to be. One day, of course, there would be hell to pay for all these newfangled mortgage products—products that allowed anyone with a pulse and a Social Security number (regardless of credit rating and income) to borrow 110 percent of the value of their home and worry about being able to afford the payment at some murky point down the road. But, still, for today it was wonderful; and all the homeowners and builders and bankers and mortgage brokers and real estate brokers and appraisers and retailers of luxury items and, of course, all the Wall Street hedge-fund managers who were buying these wacky mortgages to lock in perceivedprofits—which they could then tout to investors to support the notion of their continued mastery of the universe—couldn't be happier. And, of course, I was happiest of all.

Within a week I had grossed $50,000 in commission, and the week after that I doubled it. And just like that my money problems were over. The dark cloud that had followed me around since that horrific day on the courthouse steps had finally evaporated.

At first KGB didn't notice anything. That was no shock; after all, she spent the bulk of her day playing Crash Bandicoot III (Crash Super Smash,she called it), and what few words we didexchange were in the form of grunts and groans, during sex.

Nevertheless, she wasmy fiancée, so I figured it was only right to tell her the good news—which was that, in thirty days, when the loans began to close, I would be rolling in dough again. Then we could resume the semblance of a normal life.

“Good!” was all she said. “Then you can take me to store again.”

In the eighteen months we'd lived together, the girl had uttered the word theonly once, and it had been at the wrong time. That momentous event had occurred while we were still living in the city, while I was under house arrest. Such happy times, those were!She had said to me: “It is nice day outside. I will go to the Central Park now to take walk.”

KGB and I were living together on borrowed time, and we both knew it. In fact, I wasn't the least bit surprised when, after my first loan closed and I booked a flight to California, she wasn't offended when I didn't invite her to come along. In fact, she seemed relieved.

And what a trip it was!I couldn't remember ever being happier.

For $79 per night I rented a tiny room at the Manhattan Beach Hilton, and for an additional $29 per day I rented the cheapest car Hertz had to offer. And how had I flown? Coach!I had also flown through Boston, to save a few extra dollars. The new me!

And the kids? Well, apparently the Duchess had told them that I was having money problems, because when we went toy shopping they refused to buy anything other than candy. At first I was devastated—no, worse; I was embarrassed. I had always tried to be a larger-than-life character to my kids, a daddy who could buy them anything and take them anywhere. After all, it was a daddy's job to show his children only the bestin life, wasn't it?

Apparently not, because as the week progressed, I began to realize something very important, something that my prior life of wealth and affluence had entirely camouflaged: My children couldn't care less about all the pomp and circumstance. All they wanted was their father. And all they wanted to know was that he loved them unconditionally and that he always would. Those were simple truths, yet they had also been the most difficult for me to grasp.

And as I went about meeting their new friends, eating in their favorite restaurants, and playing in their favorite parks, I found a new peace in my life. I began thinking that this might have been God's plan all along: a rise and fall of biblical proportions, only to be resurrected once more with a newfound ability to appreciate things.

Before I flew home, I promised the kids I would come back in two weeks and that I would do that every other week until I finally moved there. And then we said good-bye, with laughs and smiles instead of tears. Without saying it, we all knew that Daddy was back.

When I landed in New York, I went straight to work—finding the refi boom accelerating at an exponential rate. In 2000, Americans had dot-commed themselves to death; in 2001, they were mortgaging themselves to death. A real estate bubble was forming right before my eyes. When would it burst? It was as if every person I spoke to either wanted to refinance or had just done so. I brought in thirty loans in two weeks and hopped back on a plane to California.

Obviously, with all the loans, it only made sense to take a slightly larger room in the Hilton (a suite, actually) and rent a slightly better car from Hertz (a Lincoln, actually). By my third trip, the loans were closing so fast that I decided to fly first class out of JFK. I mean, what was the harm? I was making my money legitimately now, and at the rate I was going I would be a millionaire in no time flat!

When I landed in L.A., my limo driver (yes, to save time I had a limo waiting for me) said he was surprised that a man of my means would choose to stay at the Hilton. “Why not stay in the Beach House?” he asked nonchalantly. “It's only a few steps from the sand, and every room has a view of the Pacific. I mean, the place ain't cheap, but it's definitely the best!”

“Well, what the hell are you waiting for?” I said to the driver. “Take me to the Beach House, for Chrissake!” And just like that I found my new home away from home: the Beach House. It was quaint and gorgeous and less than two miles from my kids. By our third stay, Chandler and Carter were like little celebrities there. Everyone knew us, and we knew everyone.

Life seemed wonderful.

There were only two things eating away at me now.

The first was my beloved fiancée, KGB.

We hated each other.

Just why we were still living together I don't think either of us could figure out, although it had something to do with inertia. Her clothes were in my closets, her panties were in my drawers, her sheets were on my bed, and no one, including Mary Poppins, likes to pack. But, alas, as 2001 came to a close, the sex began to fade away—which meant there was no reason to be living in the same zip code anymore.

It was Valentine's Day, 2002—which was as good a day as any to break off the most ill-conceived engagement since Johnny Depp and Winona Ryder. In fact, why not end it right here at dinner? We were sitting at a table for two at the American Hotel in Sag Harbor. It was a classy establishment, and, most important, it was the sort of establishment where someone as refined as KGB would think twice before she poured that glass of 1992 Louis Jadot Montrachet over my head. The sommelier, dressed in an immaculate black tuxedo and black patent-leather shoes, had just uncorked it for the bargain-basement price of $350.

KGB's fabulous blue eyes were staring at me with contempt from just a tiny table's width away. She was hanging on my every word, disgusted by each of them—already!—just fifteen minutes after we'd sat down. But I was only getting started; I mustn't rush it. This had to be more than one of our typical fights to instigate a Soviet bag-packing. From her communist-red lips, luscious as always, came the words:

“On polny mudak!”You little fucking testicle! “You think you win Cold War? Oh—please! It is all money with America! Money, money, money!” Contempt dripped off the word. “You spend my country into bankruptcy! Your Ronald Reagan call us Evil Empire and make Star Wars! And who save you in World War Two? We do! We lose twenty million people to defeat Nazis. How much you lose—ten people? Unbelievable! Fucking America… Pizda mudak!”Fucking pussies!

I shrugged, unimpressed with her latest anti-American tirade. “Well, if you hate this country so much, Yulia, then why don't you”—I started raising my voice—”get the fuck out and go back to your ownfucking country, or whatever's left of it!” Other couples began to stare. “But before you leaveus”—I reached down to the bread plate and lifted up a French baguette and offered it to her– “here, take a piece of bread with you so you don't have to wait in line when you get home.” I shook my head contemptuously. “Fucking Russia! What a mockery! Once a superpower, and look at you now! You can't even defeat Chechnya, and they're throwing fucking rocks at you!”

“Blyad!”she sputtered. “Who you think you are? You'll never get girl like me again! Look at you and look at me. You will be sorry.”

Alas, she had a point there. She definitely had me beat in the looks department. It was time to humor her. I looked her straight in her face and blew her a tender kiss.

She scrunched up her little model nose and muttered, “Mudilo!”You shrunken testicle! “Idi na khui!”Go suck your own penis!

“Yeah, well, looks aren't everything, Yulia.” I offered her a sarcastic smile. “And I want to thank you for teaching me that. See, my problem was that I got lucky with my first two wives, so I just assumed that beauty and personality came together as a package.” I shrugged innocently. “Now I know better.”

“Ha!” she snarled. “Go back to ex-wife who leave you on courthouse steps. Some woman this one is.”

In spite of everything, I still felt the need to defend the Duchess. I said, “My marriage to Nadine ended long before I got indicted; but that's neither here nor there. All that matters is what's going on with us—with ourrelationship. And it's not working.”

“Blyad!You do not have to tell methis. You are nightmare to live with. All you talk of is kids and mortgages; that is it. You big bore.” With that she looked away, muttering more Russkie curses under her breath.

I took a deep breath and said, “Listen, Yulia, I really don't want to fight anymore. You were very good to me at a time when I reallyneeded someone to be good to me.” I shrugged sadly. “But we're different people, you and I. And we're from different worlds, with different history books. It's not our fault that we don't see eye to eye on things. We couldn't even if we wanted to!” I shrugged again. “Besides, my heart's in California; that's where I need to be now, near my kids. There's no other way for me.” I shook my head and let out a few chuckles. “Trust me, you'll be better off without me. I still have to go to jail one day, and I have no idea for how long. I think you should move out this week. I'm leaving for California tomorrow, and I won't be back until Sunday.”

With great pride: “I already make plan to. Igor will come tomorrow and pack my things. You will never see me again.”

I nodded sadly. What she said was true: I would never see her again. Ours, after all, was not the sort of relationship where you remain friends afterward. (We hadn't been friends while we were together.) She would immerse herself back into the “scene,” and I would move out to California just as soon as possible and build a new life there. I would rent a house on the beach—just like I'd sworn to Alonso—and I would see my kids every day and make up for lost time.

I caught a glimpse of KGB's engagement ring—the Duchess's engagement ring. I stared at it for a moment, a flood of memories washing over me. That ring was one of my final possessions left over from the old days. Everything else was gone. Most of my furniture had been stolen from storage, and I'd hocked my gold watches just before I'd stumbled upon the refi boom. In fact, other than a few Gilberto suits, the only thing I still had left was my black four-door Mercedes. Everything else had been purchased with mortgage money, which is to say, with money I'd earned honestly.

Apparently KGB saw me staring at the ring, because she said, “Ohhh, so you want ring back now?”

I turned the corners of my mouth down and shook my head slowly. “No. You can keep it; sell it, hold it, wear it—I don't give a shit what you do with it. That ring's cursed, as far as I'm concerned. Maybe it'll bring you better luck than it brought me.”

We cut dinner short, and ten minutes later we were back in the Mercedes, on our way home. We were cruising down Noyack Road, a long, dark, winding country road that led from Sag Harbor to the village of Southampton. It was cold and damp outside; the roads were slick. I would keep it under forty.

KGB was staring out the front windshield. She wore a full-length Russian sable coat and a matching sable cap, the latter of which had an oversize brim and a long, fluffy tail dangling from the back. It was the sort of over-the-top fur ensemble that only a wealthy Russkie woman who had once been voted Miss Soviet Union could get away with without looking completely ridiculous. Her engagement ring was turned inward, the stone resting in the palm of her own balled-up fist, which was clenched as tight as a drum.

Apparently she wouldn't have given it up without a fight anyway.

I leaned forward and turned on the radio and hit the search button. A love song. Fucking Cupid! Whydoesn't someone just shoot that little bastard right in his diapered ass with one of his own arrows? I hit the search button again—another love song.

“Watch out!” screamed KGB. “There is animals on road!”

I looked up—fuck!Deer—three of them—twenty yards away and closing fast. A surge of adrenaline….I smashed on the antilock brakes and screamed: “Hold on!” I jerked the wheel to the right, trying to steer the car into the woods, but the Mercedes began to fishtail…. No!… Come on, you German bastards!… I smashed the horn– beeepppp!—but the deer just looked at the car, confused. I flashed the brights in desperation. The deer were less than ten yards away. I honked again. No effect, so I cut the wheel hard left… more fishtailing…. I smashed the brakes even harder…. I felt the antilock mechanism kick in…. The Krauts!… Come on, you Krauts!…My heart was beating a mile a minute….I was holding my breath… no… it's too late… gonna hit… Such helpless faces on the deer… a terrible waste….I locked my arms and braced for impact. “Hold on!” I screamed. “We're gonna hit…”

Suddenly, as if by magic, the car came to a complete stop, five inches from the deer. KGB and I sat there speechless, mouths agape, staring at the deer, which were still frozen in the headlights. In the background, Cupid was still torturing me with a duet by Lionel Richie and Diana Ross:

“And I'll give it all to you, my love, my love, my love, my endless love.”

“Jesus Christ,” I finally muttered, still staring at the deer. I shook my head slowly, as the deer stared back. They seemed annoyed. I flicked off the radio and looked over at KGB. Nice fucking hat!I thought. “God, that was close! I can't believe it!”

SMASH!

The impact from the fourth deer was so profound that the two-thousand-pound German Mercedes seemed to fly up a foot in the air and then fall back to earth in slow motion. Without even having to look, I knew the entire rear passenger side was completely totaled. And the deer, of course, was dead. I turned back to KGB and her hat.

“You all right?” I asked.

She nodded slowly, dreamily. She was too astonished to speak. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the three deer scatter into the woods. At that very moment, it hit me that they were a small family, probably out looking for food. I was certain I'd killed the mother. How sad.I told KGB to wait in the car.

Outside, it was sheer carnage. A large deer with a very gentle face was lying on its right side, motionless. I felt a shiver run down my spine. I turned up the collar of my sport coat against the cold and took a moment to regard the deer. How very odd; it still looked beautiful. There was no external damage. Its eyes were open and lifeless. Its body was completely still. Must've broken its neck.

I looked over at the Mercedes. It was completely totaled. From the rear door to the wheel well, the entire right side had buckled. It looked barely drivable. Fair enough, I thought. It was my last tainted possession. Tomorrow I would have it junked, along with KGB.

I turned back to the deer, to take a closer look. Was it dead? It didn't look dead. All at once a terrible fear came rising up my brain stem. A dead animal was the bringer of bad tidings, a sign from below. With a sinking heart, I crouched down and placed my hand on the deer's throat. I checked for a pulse, and suddenly the deer's eyes blinked! I jumped back, astonished.

Slowly, veryslowly, the deer rose up onto all fours and began shaking its head back and forth, as if it were trying to get out the cobwebs. Then it began limping away. After a few steps it started trotting—right back into the woods, to reunite with its family. I breathed a great sigh of relief.

Now there was only one last thing eating away at me.