Текст книги "Catch the Wolf of Wall Street"

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Making no effort to hide my displeasure, I went right back at her. “Blood money,” I sputtered. “Give me a fucking break, Nadine! I work on Wall Street; I'm not a fucking mobster.” I shook my head in disgust. “Yeah—I cut a few corners, just like everybody else, so get a fucking grip!”

Through terrible sobs, from deep in the breadbasket: “Oh, God, you corrupted everyone—even my own mother! And I… I… just stood there and… and watched… and… and… spent… the… the… blood… mon… ney!” She was sobbing so uncontrollably that her words were coming out one at a time.

“Your mother?” I screamed. “You know how good I've been to your mother? When I met her she was getting thrown out of her fucking apartment for not paying her fucking rent! And I took care of your idiot brother and your idiot fucking father, and your sister and you and everybody else, God damn it!And this is what I get in return?” I paused, trying to collect myself. I was crying too now, although I was so angry my own tears were lost on me. “I can't fucking believe this,” I screamed. “I can't fucking believe this! How the fuck could you do this now? You're my wife, Nadine. How could you do this now?”

“I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.” She was shaking like a leaf. “I didn't mean to… I didn't mean to,” and she rolled off the bed, onto the $120,000 Edward Fields carpet, and she curled up in the fetal position and continued to cry uncontrollably.

And that was that.

I knew right then and there that I had lost my wife forever. Whatever bond the Duchess and I had once shared had now been severed. Whether or not I would ever get to make love to her again was still a matter of question, and, in truth, I couldn't have cared less. After all, I was facing much bigger problems than where to get my rocks off.

In fact, just down the hall were our two young children, the innocent victims in all this, who were about to wake up to one of the cruelest realities of life:

Nothing lasts forever.

CHAPTER 5

OCD AND THE MORMON

he next morning, I was back in the limousine again.

This time, however, the closet terrorist wasn't driving me through the gloomy groin of western Queens; rather, he was driving me through the rancid gullet of western Brooklyn. In fact, we were making our way through a demographic nightmare known as Sunset Park, a neighborhood soethnically diverse-loaded with Chinese and Koreans and Malaysians and Vietnamese and Thais and Puerto Ricans and Mexicans and Dominicans and Salvadorans and Guatemalans, along with a handful of remarkably dim-witted Finns, who were too slow on the uptake to realize that the rest of their Finnish brethren had fled for their lives thirty years ago, when the ethnic hordes invaded—that, staring out the side window, I felt like we were driving through the parking lot of the United Nations after a missile strike.

Yes, this part of Sunset Park was, indeed, a shithole. It was a flat swath of dirt and asphalt punctuated by dilapidated warehouses, deserted storefronts, rotting piers, and bird poop. Downtown Manhattan—where I would ultimately be heading this morning– was just a few miles to the west, on the other side of the polluted East River. From my current vantage point, in the limo's right backseat, I could see the swirling waters of the river, the towering skyline of Lower Manhattan, and the glorious arc of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, stretching to the not-so-glorious borough of Staten Island.

According to plan, at precisely nine a.m., Monsoir pulled in front of a grimy underground parking garage on the south side of a grimy two-way street. As I climbed out of the limousine, I said, “Stay put until I beep you, Monsoir,” and while I'm gone don't be blowing up any bridges, I thought. Then I slammed the door in his face and walked down a short flight of steps to the lower level of the parking garage.

I heard a familiar voice: “Jordan! Over here!”

I turned to my right, and there was Special Agent Gregory Coleman. He was standing in front of a typical government-issue car, which is to say: four doors, no dents, perhaps two years old, and made in America. In fact, it was a 1997 maroon Ford Taurus with lightly tinted windows and no siren. He was leaning against the rear passenger-side door with his arms crossed, the pose of the victorious warrior.

Standing beside him, with a kind smile on his face, was his partner-in-training, Special Agent Bill McCrogan. I had met McCrogan only once, on the night of my arrest, and for some inexplicable reason I had liked him. He seemed too kind to be an FBI agent, although I was certain that once Coleman got through with him he wouldn't be so kind anymore. McCrogan was a few inches taller than Coleman, the better part of five-ten, and he looked about thirty. He had a thick thatch of curly brown hair, broad features, and an entirely average build. Over his pale-blue eyes he wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that made him look God-fearing. A Mormon, I figured, probably from Salt Lake City or Provo, or maybe even the hills of Idaho… although who really gave a shit.

Coleman, on the other hand, looked Italian or Greek, although I had him figured as a German, because of his last name. Yes, he was probably from the hills of Bavaria. He was about the same height as me, a little over five-seven, and he weighed no more than one-sixty. He was broad in the chest, but not overly so. His features were fine and even, although they were a bit on the pointy side and seemed to ooze suspicion, especially at me. He had short brown hair, parted to the side, and there were a few strands of gray by his ears. But those must have been the result of him chasing after me for the last five years, which would be enough to make any man gray. He had smooth olive skin, an aquiline nose, a high forehead, and the most piercing brown eyes imaginable. They looked sharper than a hawk's. He was about my age, which meant that the bastard had been on my tail since he was in his late twenties! Christ—what kind of man could become so obsessed with bringing someone else to justice? I mean, really, how bad a case of OCD did this guy have? And why had he become OCD-ed with me? What a fucking shame that was.

“Welcome to Team USA!” said Agent OCD, smiling broadly and extending his right hand, the wrist of which sported a black plastic watch with a circular face and a suggested retail price somewhere below $59.99.

I shook his hand warily and searched his face for irony. But all I found was what appeared to be a genuine smile. “Thanks,” I muttered, “but I figured you'd be gloating a bit.” I shrugged. “I mean, I wouldn't blame you if you did.”

The Mormon chimed in: “Gloating? He's been miserable since the day he caught you! It was the chase he loved”—he looked at Agent OCD—”right, Greg?”

OCD rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Yeah, whatever,” and he smiled at me once more, except thissmile was peppered with sadness. “Anyway, I'm glad you finally decided to join the good guys. You're doing the right thing here. You really are.”

I shrugged again. “Yeah, well I feel like a bit of a louse.”

“You're not a louse,” he shot back.

“Definitely not,” added the Mormon, with a toothy Mormon smile. “You're much worse than a louse!” And he laughed a warm Mormon laugh and then extended his God-fearing hand for a Mormon handshake.

I smiled at the kindhearted guy and shook his hand dutifully. Then I took a moment to regard my two new friends. They both wore dark blue suits, crisp white dress shirts, conservative blue neckties, and black lace-up shoes. (Typical G-man's ensemble.) They looked pretty good, actually; everything fit together nicely, and their suits had been pressed to near perfection.

Either way, my ensemble was terribly smarter than theirs. I had felt it was important to look good on my first day of ratting, so I'd chosen my outfit carefully. I was wearing a $2,200 single-breasted navy serge suit, a white oxford dress shirt with a conservative button-down collar, a solid navy crepe de chine necktie, and black lace-up shoes. But unlike their shoes, which were clodhoppers, mine were made of buttery-soft napa leather. In fact, they had been custom-made in England for $1,800. Good for me! Ithought. I had them beaten hands down in the shoe department.

And in the watch department too.

Indeed. For today's festivities I was sporting my $26,000 Swiss Tabbah, with its chocolate-brown leather band and oversize white rectangular face. It was the sort of ultrafine Swiss watch that reeked of wealth to those in the know yet would come off as nothing special to people in Coleman and McCrogan's income bracket. It had been a clever move on my part, to leave the Bulgari home in its cage this morning. After all, why make my new friends jealous, or did they now have the right to grab my watch right off my fucking wrist and put it on theirs? (The spoils of war, so to speak.) Hmmm… I would have to ask Magnum about that.

The Mormon and I were still shaking hands, when he added, “In all seriousness, though, you aredoing the right thing here, Jordan. Welcome to Team USA!”

“Yeah,” I replied, in a tone laced with irony. “I'm doing the only thing I can do, right?”

They both pursed their lips and nodded slowly, as if to say, “Yes, threatening to indict a man's wife leaves him few options, now, doesn't it!” Then Coleman said, “Anyway, I'm sorry about all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but we think some of your old friends might try to have you followed. So we're gonna drive you around the streets of Brooklyn for a while to shake off any tails.”

Wonderful! I thought. Agent OCD must have information he's not sharing with me—like somebody wants me dead! It had never occurred to me that I might get assassinated over this cooperation business, but now that I thought about it, it would make perfect sense to a lot of people, wouldn't it? In fact, maybe I should just assassinate myself right now and save everyone else the trouble. Of course the Duchess would be thrilled about that, wouldn't she? She would dance on my grave, chanting, “It was blood money! It was blood money!” and then she would light a ceremonial fire and set our marriage certificate ablaze.

Christ, I had to get a grip here!I needed to focus. I needed to keep that blond-headed scoundrel out of my thoughts. It was these two rat bastards I needed to focus on. I took a deep breath and said, “Who do you think might be after me?”

OCD shrugged. “I don't know. Who do youthink might be after you?”

I returned his shrug. “I don't know. I guess everybody, right?” I paused for an instant, then added, “Or everybody except my wife. I mean, she couldn't give a shit where I am, or where I'm going, for that matter, as long as I'm not going near her.”

“Really?” said OCD. “Why do you say that?”

“Because she fucking hates me! That's why I say that!” And because last night she told me she would never let me stick it inside her again, I said to myself.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That surprises me.”

“Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

OCD shrugged once more. “I don't know. The night you were arrested it seemed like she really loved you. In fact, I asked her if she loved you and she told me that she did.”

“It's true,” added the Mormon.

I narrowed my eyes, as if confused. “Why would you guys ask my wife that? I mean, isn't that a little off the beaten trail?”

“Welllll,”chirped OCD, “you'd be surprised what we get out of a wife if she's disgruntled. In fact, sometimes the wife will be screaming, ‘My husband has cash hidden in the basement! He cheats on his taxes!’ right as I'm escorting the husband away in handcuffs.” OCD chuckled at that. “But not your wife. She didn't say anything.”

“Not a thing,” added the Mormon. “I mean, I could be mistaken, but I think your wife still loves you.”

“I hate to break up the party,” mused Coleman, “but we need to get the show on the road. Anyway, this place smells like, uh…”

“Dog shit?” I offered.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied, opening the rear passenger door and motioning for me to climb in. “Just lay across the backseat and try to keep your head down, okay?”

I stared at OCD for a good few seconds, wondering if he was alluding to the possibility of a sniper being outside, waiting to blow my head off. But I dismissed the thought as being ridiculous; after all, if someone wanted to assassinate me, there would be more convenient times than when I was under the protection of two FBI agents.

So I climbed in with a confident shrug, and just like that we were on our way—driving through the rancid gullet of Sunset Park. We made a series of rights and lefts, along with an occasional U-turn, as they went about shaking off imaginary tails. Meanwhile, we engaged in only idle conversation, with all three of us aware that it would be inappropriate to discuss anything meaningful without my lawyer present.

To my surprise, they both seemed genuinely concerned over the breakup of my marriage, especially the impact it might have on my children. I found my spirits rising as they repeated the story of how the Duchess had professed her love for me on the night of my arrest. Furthermore, they were both convinced that once the initial shock had passed, she would want to stay married. But I knew they were wrong; they didn't know the Duchess like I did. She had decided to move on, and that was that.

By the time we hit the Brooklyn Bridge, my spirits had plunged lower than ever. I was running out of time now, quickly approaching the point of no return. FBI headquarters was less than five minutes away.

Yes, I thought, there were some pretty dark days up ahead; of that much I was certain. The only question was how deep did the rabbit hole go? I took a deep breath and tried to steel myself, but it was no use.

Soon enough I would be singing on Court Street.

CHAPTER 6

THE BASTARD AND THE WITCH

he New York field office of the FBI occupied the twentieth, twenty-first, and twenty-second floors of a glass-and-concrete tower that rose up forty-two stories above Lower Manhattan. The area, which was known as Tribeca, for “triangle below Canal Street,” was the part of town that included Wall Street, the federal courthouses, the World Trade Center, and the least respected of all government institutions: the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

I walked down a long narrow hallway in the building's subbasement, with Coleman and McCrogan on either side of me. Coleman had just finished explaining how we were in the part of the building that was used for debriefings.

I nodded dutifully and kept on walking, resisting the urge to ask him if the FBI considered the word debriefingto be synonymous with interrogation.Either way, I had no doubt that many things had gone ondown here that hadn't exactly jived with the Bill of Rights. (Probably some light torture, some sleep deprivation, and garden-variety habeas corpus violations.) But I decided to keep those stray thoughts to myself, and I just kept nodding and walking—maintaining a neutral expression—as they escorted me into a small debriefing room at the end of the hall.

Inside the room, three people were sitting in cheap black armchairs around a cheap wooden conference table. There were no windows in this room, just fluorescent lights emitting a blue tubercular glow. The walls were completely bare, painted a disturbing shade of hospital white. On one side of the table sat my trusted lawyer, Gregory J. O'Connell, aka Magnum, smiling broadly, looking as towering and dapper as ever. He was wearing a gray pinstripe suit, a white dress shirt, and a red striped tie. He looked right at home down here, a former prosecutor himself, who now had the pleasure of defending the guilty.

Across from Magnum sat a man and a woman, the former of whom I knew from the day of my arraignment, when he'd said all those kind things at my bail hearing. His name was Joel Cohen, and a little over two years ago he had teamed up with OCD to bring me to justice, succeeding where a half-dozen AUSAs before him had failed.

In essence, as sharp and as dedicated as OCD was, he had needed an equally sharp counterpart within the U.S. Attorney's Office to handle the legal end of things. OCD on his own could only investigate; he needed a bastard like Joel Cohen to prosecute me.

At this particular moment, the Bastard was leaning forward in his armchair with his bony elbows resting on the desktop. He was staring at me with narrowed eyes, licking his chops inwardly, no doubt. He wore a cheap gray suit, a cheap white dress shirt, a cheap red tie, and a sinister expression. He had a short mop of curly brown hair, a high forehead, a fleshy nose, and a pasty-faced complexion. He wasn't bad-looking, though; he just looked unkempt, as if he rolled out of bed and came straight to the office. But that was by design, I figured. Oh, yes, the Bastard was trying to make a statement—that now that we were in hisworld, the price of your suit, the reputation of your dry cleaner, and the fashion sense of your barber didn't matter a lick. It was the Bastard who had the power, and I was his prisoner—regardless of appearance. The Bastard was of average height and weight, although he had that aforementioned degenerate slouch, which made him appear shorter. I had no doubt that he held me in as much contempt as I held him. Right now, in fact, he had a look on his face that so much as said, “Welcome to my underground lair, prisoner! Let the torture begin!”

The room's third occupant was a mousy little creature named Michele Adelman. She was sitting to the Bastard's left. I had never met her before, but her reputation preceded her. Her nickname was the Wicked Witch of the East, something she'd earned due to her uncanny likeness—both physically and personality-wise—to that conniving old hag from The Wizard of Oz.And since Michele (and Joel) worked as assistant U.S. attorneys for the EasternDistrict of New York, the nickname made that much more sense.

The Witch was a squat five foot two, with a great mane of dark frizzy hair, dark beady eyes, thin maroon lips, and an abbreviated chin. I could only imagine how mousy she'd look if she picked up a block of Swiss cheese between her paws and started nibbling on it. And I could only imagine how witchlike she'd look if she straddled a broomstick and took a cruise around the debriefing room. She wore a dark blue pantsuit and a stern expression.

“Good morning!” said Magnum. “I'd like to introduce you to two people whom you're going to be spending quite a bit of time with over the next few months.” He motioned to the Witch and the Bastard, who both nodded dutifully. Then he said, “Jordan, this is Joel Cohen, whom I believe you've had the pleasure of meeting before”—I reached over and shook the Bastard's hand, wondering if he might try to slap a handcuff on me—”and this is Michele Adelman, whom I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting before,” and now I shook the Witch's hand, wondering if she might try to turn me into a newt.

“Anyway, I want everyone to know that Jordan is fully committed to his cooperation.” Magnum nodded a single time. “He plans on being both honest and forthright at all times, and I can assure that the information he has is invaluablein your fight against crime and injustice on Wall Street.” And Magnum nodded once more.

What a load of crap! I thought. I mean, really!

“That's good,” replied the Bastard, motioning for me to take a seat next to Magnum. “We all look forward to your cooperation, Jordan, and I speak for all those present when I say that we hold no ill feelings toward you”—out of the corner of my eye I could see OCD rolling his eyes, as he and the Mormon took seats on either side of the Witch and the Bastard—”and that if you do the right thing here you'll be treated fairly.”

I nodded gratefully, not believing a word he said. OCD would treat me fairly; he was a man of honor. But not the Bastard; he had it out for me. The Witch, however, I wasn't sure about it. According to Magnum, she hated all men—including OCD and the Bastard—so I would be of no special interest to her. My problem was the Bastard. Hopefully he would leave the office before I got sentenced. Then everything would be okay.

With great humility, I said, “I believe you, Joel, and like Greg said, I'm totally committed to my cooperation. Ask whatever you want, and I'll answer as best I can.”

“So did you sink your yacht for the insurance money?” snapped the Witch. “Let's hear the truth.”

I looked at the Witch and offered her a dead smile. On the table was a tall pitcher of water with six glasses next to it, one of which was half full. What would happen if I threw the glass of water on the Witch? She'd probably scream, “Help me! I'm melting! I'm melting!” But I decided to keep that thought to myself, and all I said was, “No, Michele. If I wanted to sink it for the insurance money, I wouldn't have done it with myself and my wife on it.”

“Why?” countered the Witch. “That would be the perfect alibi.”

“And it would also be a perfect way to get himself killed,” snapped OCD. “He got caught in a storm, Michele. Go read Yachtingmagazine. It's in there.”

With great confidence, Magnum said, “I can assure all those present that Jordan did not sink his yacht for the insurance money. Right, Jordan?”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “But I won't deny that I hated the thing. It was a hundred and seventy feet of floating heartache. It was constantly breaking down, and it burned through money faster than Haiti.” I shrugged innocently. “Anyway, I was glad it sank.” Would they really make me tell them the story of the yacht sinking? It really had beenan accident. The only thing I'd been guilty of was poor judgment, which at the time had been slightly impaired. I was under the influence of enough drugs to sedate Guatemala, so I pressured the captain to take out the boat into the middle of a Force 8 gale, to quell my drug-induced boredom.

“Anyway,” said Magnum, “you have your answer, Michele. It was an accident.” I nodded in agreement, feeling confident in our first exchange. It had been entirely innocuous, and Magnum and I had handled ourselves beautifully, neutralizing the Witch's spell. Or so I'd thought, until the Bastard said, “And when the boat was sinking, isn't it true that you called Danny Porush and told him that you had ten million dollars in cash buried in your backyard, and that if you and your wife died he should dig it up and make sure it went to your children?”

I looked around the debriefing room and all eyes were on me, including Magnum's. OCD had a wry smile on his face that so much as said, “You see, Jordan, I know things about you that you had no idea I knew!” The Mormon, however, had a rather mischievous smile on his face that so much as said, “I'd be willing to split the ten million with you if you hand me a treasure map and keep the others out of it!” But the Witch and the Bastard both bore grim expressions that so much as said, “Just go ahead and lie to us and see what happens!”

Ironically, I had no idea what they were talking about. In fact, I was now astonished for three reasons: first, because I hadn't buried even ten dollars in my backyard, much less ten million; second, because there was no way of proving it, short of taking OCD into my backyard with a pick and a shovel and digging up six acres of some very expensive Bermuda grass; and, third, because the way the Bastard had phrased his question, he'd insinuated that the information had come from Danny Porush himself, which meant he was cooperating too.

And that was both good and bad. On the bright side, it meant that I wouldn't have to cooperate against him, which was something Magnum had predicted. But on the not-so-bright side, Danny had been my right-hand man, which meant everything I said would be cross-checked for accuracy. I would have to be extremely careful with that; outright lies would have to be avoided. It would simply be too easy to get caught. Omissions of fact were my only hope. After all, withholding information could just as easily be a lapse of memory.

With a hint of disdain, I replied, “That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard, Joel.” I shook my head and let out a cynical chuckle. “You know, I don't know where you're getting your information from, but I promise you that it's completely bogus.” I looked at OCD. His expression was neutral, his hawk eyes slightly narrowed, as if he was sizing me up. I looked him right in the eyes and said, “Trust me, Greg; whoever told you that is yanking your chain. Think about it for a second: Who in their right mind would bury ten million dollars in their backyard? I would've had to dig the hole in the middle of the night and then resod my lawn before sunup. And I'm not exactly the manual-labor type. In fact, the last time one of my lamps blew a bulb, I threw out the lamp.” I stared right into the bastard's eyes.

“You have a very competent lawyer,” Joel sputtered, “so I'm sure he's explained to you that if you get caught lying, or try to deceive us in any way whatsoever, we have the right to rip up your cooperation agreement and throw it in the garbage can.” He flashed me a dead smile. “That means you'd be sentenced without the benefit of a 5K letter, which translates into about thirty years in a—”

Magnum cut the Bastard off with, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Joel! Settle down! Jordan is fully aware of his obligations, and he has every intention of living up to them.”

The Bastard shrugged. “And I'm not saying he won't,” he shot back. “But it's my legal obligation to inform him of the terrible fatethat would befall him”– and how happy it would make me,his tone implied—”if he were sentenced without the benefit of a 5K letter.” The Bastard looked me right in the eye and added, “And remember that all the information you provide us with can be used against you if you should change your mind and decide to go to trial.”

“I'm fully aware of that,” I said calmly. “Greg explained all this to me yesterday. But you don't have to worry: I won't put you in a position where you'd have to ruin my life, Joel.” Try as I might, the last few words slipped out with a healthy dose of irony.

“You know, I think this might be a good time to confer with my client,” said Magnum. “Would you give us a few moments?”

“No problem,” said the Bastard, rising from his armchair. He smiled at the Wicked Witch of the East, who rose from her seat too, followed by OCD and the Mormon. Then, in single file, they exited the room and closed the door behind them. The moment they were gone, I popped out of my chair and snarled, “This is total horseshit, Greg, total fucking horseshit! You were right about him; he's a real fuckhead!And the other one, Michele Adelman– Jesus! What a cunt sheis! Someone oughtta give her a fucking broomstick and tell her to fly herself back to Oz!”

Magnum nodded in agreement, slowly rising from his chair until he was a good two heads above me. With a friendly smile, he said, “First of all, I want you to calm down. Take a deep breath and count to ten; then, when you're done, we can talk about the ten million buried in your backyard.”

I looked up at Magnum, whose head now seemed to be scraping the fluorescent bulbs. “Will you please sit down!” I demanded. “You're too fucking tall. I lose my perspective when we're both standing.” I motioned for him to take a seat.

“You're not that short,” he replied, staring down at the top of my head, as if I were a midget. “I think you have a complex.” He reached down and placed his large hand on my shoulder. “In fact, when all this is over, I think you should seek help.”

I expelled a gust of air. “Yeah, well, I'll take it up with the prison shrink when I'm not busy getting butt-fucked by Bubba the Bull-queer.” I shook my head in frustration. “Anyway, I didn't bury any money in my backyard, Greg, or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“That's fine,” said Magnum, taking his seat. “You have nothing to worry about, then. Joel has to write you the 5K letter, even if he doesn't believe you. He can only withhold the letter if he catches you in an outright lie. But you aregoing to have to give him a financial statement.” He paused for a brief instant. “And it's going to have to include any cash you might have. If something should surfacedown the road”—he rolled his eyes—”it would be very bad for you; very, very bad. How much cash are you sitting on right now?”

“Not much,” I replied. “Maybe a million, slightly less.”

“That's it?”

“Yeah, that's it. Maybe you're forgetting about all the cash I smuggled overseas. Why the fuck do you think I'm sitting here, for a traffic violation?”

“I understand you smuggled money overseas, but that doesn't account for all of it.” He paused and rolled his long, rangy neck, eliciting half a dozen dull vertebral cracks. Then he said, “Listen, I'm just playing devil's advocate here, trying to anticipate what Joel might think, and I think he might be skeptical.”

I shook my head in consternation. “Let me explain something, Greg: For the last four years I didn't actually own a brokerage firm. I was just controlling them from behind the scenes, right?”

He nodded.

“Right, so follow me for a second: Since Ididn't actually own the brokerage firms, it was mewho was getting shares in hot new issues, and it was mewho was kicking back cash to the owners.” I paused, searching for a simple way to explain to Magnum (who wasn't a crook) how things went down in a crooked world. “In other words, in the early nineties, back when I ownedStratton, Iwas the one who was getting the cash kickbacks. But after I was thrown out of the brokerage business and was operating from behind the scenes, the whole process reversed itself, and Iwas the one who was paying the kickbacks—paying off the owners of the brokerage firms. You understand?”

He nodded again. “Yes, I do,” he said confidently. “That makes perfect sense to me.”

I nodded back. “Good, because it happens to be the truth.” I shrugged. “Anyway, I don't even have the million dollars. My mother-in-law is holding it for me.”