Текст книги "The Wolf of Wall Street "

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

“Hello” was all she said.

My suspicions were confirmed. It was a black hooker straight from Ethiopia, who could only say hello and good-bye! My favorite!I motioned her into the room and led her over to the bed. She sat down. I sat down next to her. I slowly leaned back and put my right elbow on the bed and leaned my cheek on the palm of my hand– OH, FUCK! MY WIFE! THE DUCHESS! SHIT!I quickly put a forefinger to my lips and prayed that this woman understood the international sign language known to all hookers, which in this particular instance translated into: “Shut the fuck up, you whore! My wife’s on the phone, and if she hears a female voice in the room, I’m in deep shit and you’re not getting a tip!”

Thankfully, she nodded.

With that, I picked up the phone and explained to the Duchess that there was nothing worse in the world than cold eggs Benedict. She was sympathetic and told me that she loved me unconditionally.I hung on this word for all it was worth. Then I told her that I loved her too, and that I missed her and that I couldn’t live without her, all of which was true.

And just like that, a terrible wave of sadness came over me. How could I feel those things for my wife and still do the things I did? What was wrong with me? This wasn’t normal behavior for any man. Even for a man of power—no, especially for a man of power! It was one thing to have an occasional marital indiscretion; that was to be expected. But there had to be some line, and I…well, I chose not to finish the thought.

I took a deep breath and tried to drive the negativity out of my head, but it was difficult. I loved my wife. She was a good girl, despite breaking up my first marriage. But I was just as much to blame for that.

I felt like I was being driven to do things, not because I really wanted to do them but because they were expected of me. It was as if my life was a stage, and the Wolf of Wall Street was performing for the benefit of some imaginary audience, who judged my every move and hung on my every word.

It was a cruel insight into the very dysfunction of my own personality. I mean, had I really given a shit about Franca? She couldn’t hold a candle to my wife. And that French accent of hers—I’d take my wife’s Brooklyn accent any day! Yet even after I had come out of my blackout, I still asked the Customs officer for her phone number. Why? Because I thought it was something that the Wolf of Wall Street would be expected to do. How bizarre that was. And how sad too.

I looked over at the woman sitting next to me. Did she have any diseases? I wondered. No, she looked pretty healthy. Too healthy to be carrying the AIDS virus, right? Then again, she was from Africa…No, no way! AIDS was an old-fashioned disease: You had to earn it by sticking your dick in a hole it didn’t belong in. Besides, I never seemed to catch anything, so why should this time be any different?

She smiled at me, so I smiled back. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, thighs akimbo. So immodest! So incredibly sexy! That loincloth of hers was almost above her hips. This would be my last time, then! To pass up this chocolate-brown towering inferno would be a travesty of justice—nothing less!

With that thought, I pushed all the negative garbage out of my mind and decided right there, on the spot, that just as soon as I shot the back of her head off, I would flush the rest of my Quaaludes down the toilet and start my life anew.

And that was exactly what I did, in exactly that order.

CHAPTER 12

DARK PREMONITIONS

Afew hours later, at 12:30 p.m., Swiss Frog time, Danny was sitting across from me in the back of a blue Rolls-Royce limousine that was wider than a commercial fishing trawler and longer than a hearse, which gave me this eerie feeling that I was heading to my own funeral. That was the day’s first dark premonition.

We were on our way to Union Bancaire Privée for the first meeting with our prospective Swiss bankers. I was staring out the rear window—looking up at the towering geyser, still in awe of it—when Danny said with great sadness, “I still don’t see why I had to flush my own Ludes down the toilet. I mean, really, JB! I’d just shoved them up my asshole a couple of hours ago! That’s pretty raw, don’t you think?”

I looked at Danny and smiled. He had a valid point. In the past, I had stuck drugs up my ass too—going through this country or that—and it wasn’t a barrel of laughs. I had once heard that it was easier if you sealed the drugs in a vial and then coated the vial with a hefty amount of Vaseline. But the mere thought of putting that much planning into drug smuggling had precluded me from giving the Vaseline strategy a whirl. Only a true drug addict, after all, would ever consider such an undertaking.

Anyway, I also respected Danny for looking out for me, for always being there to protect the golden goose. The real question, though, was how long would he continue to protect the goose if he ever stopped laying golden eggs? It was a good question, but not one worth dwelling on. I was on a big-time roll now, and the money was pouring in faster than ever. I said, “Yeah, it’s pretty raw; I won’t deny that. But don’t think I don’t appreciate the gesture—especially you ramming them up there without any K-Y jelly or anything—but the time for getting Luded out is over. I need you to be on top of your game now, for the next couple of days, at least, and I need to be on top of my game too. Okay?”

Danny leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs insouciantly and said, “Yeah, I’m fine with that. I could use a little break myself. I just don’t like things being stuck up my ass.”

“We need to slow down with the hookers too, Dan. It’s getting pretty disgusting already.” I started shaking my head to drive my point home. “I mean, this last girl was pretty hot. You shoulda seen her. I think she was six-one, or maybe even taller! I felt like a newborn baby sucking on his mother’s tit—which was kind of a turn-on, actually.” I shifted in my seat uncomfortably, taking the pressure off my left leg. “Black girls taste a little different than white girls, don’t you think? Especially their pussies, which taste like…uhhhhmm…Jamaican sugar cane! Yeah, it’s very sweet, a black girl’s pussy! It’s like…well, it doesn’t really matter. Listen, Dan—I can’t tell you where to stick your dick, that’s your own affair, but I, myself, am done with hookers for a while. Seriously.”

Danny shrugged. “If my wife looked like yours, maybe I’d slow down too. But Nancy’s a real fucking nightmare! The woman just sucks the life out of me! You know what I’m saying?”

I resisted the urge to bring up genealogy and smiled sympathetically. “Maybe the two of you should get a divorce. Everyone else seems to be doing it, so it won’t be a big deal.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Anyway, I don’t mean to dismiss the importance of your personal problems with your wife, but we need to talk business now. We’re gonna be at the bank in a couple of minutes, and there’s a couple things I want to go over with you before we get there. First, you know to let me do the talking, right?”

He nodded. “What do you think, I’m the fucking Blockhead?”

I smiled. “No, your head’s not square enough, and, besides, it has a brain in it. But, listen—in all seriousness—it’s important that you sit back and observe. Try to figure out what these Frogs are thinking. I can’t pick up anything from their body language. I’m starting to think they don’t have any. Anyway, however it goes this morning, no matter how perfect the whole thing turns out to be, we’re gonna leave this meeting saying we’re not interested. That’s a must, Danny. We say that it doesn’t fit with what we’re doing back in the States and we’ve decided it’s not for us. I’ll come up with some logical reason after they tell me a little bit more about the legal issues, okay?”

“No problem,” he replied, “but why?”

“Because of Kaminsky,” I said. “He’s gonna be there at the first meeting, and I trust that toupeed bastard about as far as I can throw him. I’ll tell you—I’m really negative about this whole Swiss thing as it is. I’ve got bad vibes for some reason. But if we dodecide to do this, there’s no way Kaminsky can ever know. That would defeat the whole purpose. Maybe we’ll use a different bank if we decide to go forward, or maybe we can still use this one. I’m sure they have no loyalty to Kaminsky.

“Anyway, the most important thing is that no one in the States knows about this. I don’t care how stoned you are, Danny, or how many Ludes you’ve taken or how much coke you’ve snorted. This one never slips out. Not to Madden, not to your father, and especially not to your wife—okay?”

Danny nodded. “Omerta, buddy. To the very end.”

I smiled and nodded and then looked out the window without saying a word. It was a signal to Danny that I was no longer in the mood for conversation, and Danny, being Danny, picked up on it immediately. I spent the remainder of the limousine ride gazing out the window at the immaculate streets of Geneva—marveling at how there wasn’t so much as a speck of garbage on a sidewalk or a brush-stroke of graffiti on a wall. Pretty soon my mind began to wander, and I started wondering why on earth I was doing this. It seemed wrong, it seemed risky, and it seemed reckless. One of my first mentors, Al Abrams, had warned me to steer clear of overseas banking. He said it was a prescription for trouble, that it raised too many red flags. He said that you could never trust the Swiss—that they would sell you down the river if the U.S. government ever put any real pressure on them. He explained that all Swiss banks had branches in the U.S., which made them vulnerable to governmental pressure. All of Al’s points were valid. And Al was the most careful man I had ever met. He actually kept old pens in his office, dating back ten or fifteen years, so if he had to backdate a document, the age of the ink would hold up to an FBI gas chromatograph. Talk about your careful criminals!

In the early days, back when I was getting started, Al and I would meet for breakfast at the Seville Diner, a mile or so down the road from Stratton’s then-headquarters at 2001 Marcus Avenue, just a stone’s throw away from its current location. He would offer me a cup of coffee and a Linzer torte, along with a historical analysis on the evolution of the federal securities laws. He would explain why things were the way they were; what mistakes people had made in the past; and how most of the current securities laws were written in consequence of past criminal acts. I soaked it all up. I took no notes. After all, writing things down was forbidden. Business with Al was done strictly on a handshake. His word was his bond. And he never broke it. Yes, papers were exchanged, if absolutely necessary, but only ones that had been carefully manufactured by Al with even more carefully chosen pens. And, of course, every document firmly supported a notion of plausible deniability.

Al had taught me many things, the most important of which was that every transaction—every securities trade and every wire transfer, whether from a bank or brokerage firm—left a paper trail. And unless that paper trail exonerated you from guilt—or, if not that, supported some alternative explanation that granted you plausible deniability—then sooner or later you’d find yourself on the ass end of a federal indictment.

And so it was that I’d been careful. From the earliest days of Stratton Oakmont, every trade I had consummated, and every wire transfer Janet had made on my behalf, and every questionable corporate finance deal I had participated in, had been dressed up—or padded, as the term went on Wall Street—with various documents and time stamps, even certified letters, which together yielded an alternative explanation that alleviated me of criminal liability. There would be no head shots at the Wolf of Wall Street; I would not get caught between their crosshairs. Al Abrams had taught me well.

But now Al was in jail or awaiting sentencing for, of all things, money laundering. As careful as he’d been, he had been ignorant of one law, namely, withdrawing cash from a bank account in increments slightly less than $10,000, as a means of avoiding filing a form with the IRS. It was a law designed to foil drug dealers and Mafioso types, but it still applied to all U.S. citizens. Another thing Al had taught me was that if I ever received a phone call from a business associate—current or former—and they tried getting me to discuss past dealings, there was a ninety percent chance they were cooperating. And that included him. So when I received a call from Al, and that strange squeaking voice of his uttered those fateful words, “Remember the time,…” I knew he was in trouble. Shortly thereafter I received a phone call from one of Al’s attorneys, who informed me that Al had been indicted and that it would be much appreciated if I bought him out of all the private investments we held together. His assets had been frozen and he was running short of cash. Without hesitation I bought him out of everything, at five times the current market value, funneling millions to him in cash. And then I prayed. I prayed that Al wouldn’t give me up. I prayed that Al would stand up to questioning. I prayed that in spite of the fact that he was cooperating, he would give up everyone but me. But when I checked with one of New York’s top criminal lawyers, I was told there was no such thing as partial cooperation; either you cooperated against everyone or you didn’t cooperate at all. My heart dropped to my stomach.

What would I do if Al cooperated against me? Most of the cash he had withdrawn from the bank had gone to me. He had once told me that he had some ratholes in the jewelry district, for whom he was making money in new issues and they were kicking him back large amounts of cash. Never once had I considered that he was taking money out of the bank. He was too smart for that, wasn’t he? He was the most careful man on the planet. One mistake—that was all it took.

Would I share the same fate? Was Switzerland going to be my one act of stupidity? For five years I had been incredibly careful—never giving the FBI a single head shot. I never talked about the past; my home and office were constantly swept for bugs; I papered every transaction I’d ever made, creating plausible deniability; and I never took small amounts of money out of the bank. In fact, I had withdrawn over $10 million dollars in cash from various bank accounts, in increments of a quarter million or more, for the sole reason of having plausible deniability if I was ever caught with a large amount of cash. In fact, if the FBI ever questioned me I could simply say, “Go check with my bank and you’ll see that all my cash is legit.”

So, yes—I had been careful. But so had my good friend Al, my first mentor, a man I owed a great deal to. And if they had caught him…well, the odds were definitely stacked against me.

And that would be my second dark premonition of the day. But at this particular moment I had no way of knowing that it wouldn’t be my last.

CHAPTER 13

MONEY LAUNDERING 101

The private banking firm of Union Bancaire Privée occupied a gleaming black-glass office building that rose up ten stories from the Frog-infested marrow of Geneva. It was located on rue du Rhône, which, I assumed, translated into Rhone Street. It was in the very heart of Geneva’s overpriced shopping district, merely a stone’s throw away from my favorite geyser.

Unlike a U.S. bank, where you walk through the entryway and find smiling tellers hiding behind bulletproof glass, inside this particular lobby there was only a single young lady surrounded by about forty tons of gray Italian marble. She sat behind a solid mahogany desk that was large enough to land my helicopter on. She wore a light-gray pantsuit, a high-necked white blouse, and a blank expression. Her hair was blond and had been pulled back into a tight bun. Her skin was flawless, not a wrinkle or a blemish on it. Another Swiss robot, I thought.

As Danny and I walked to the desk, she eyed us suspiciously. She knew, didn’t she!Of course she did. It was written all over our faces. Young American criminals looking to launder their ill-gotten gains! Drug dealers who made their money selling to schoolchildren!

I took a deep breath and resisted the urge to explain to her that we were just plain old stock swindlers, who were only addicted to drugs. We didn’t actually sell them, for Chrissake!

But thankfully she chose to keep her opinion to herself and not address the exact nature of our crime. All she said was, “Might I help you?”

Might? Jesus H. Christ! More wishes! “Yes, I’m here for a meeting with Jean Jacques Saurel? ^*2My name is Jordan Belfort?” Why the fuck was I phrasing everything as a question? These Swiss bastards were rubbing off on me.

I waited for the female android to answer me, but she didn’t. She just kept staring at me…and then at Danny…eyeing the two of us up and down. Then, as if to reinforce how poorly I’d pronounced Mr. Saurel’s name, she replied, “Ah—you mean Monsieur Jean Jacques Saurel!” How beautiful she made his name sound! “Yes, Mr. Belfort, they would all be waiting for you on the fifth floor.” She motioned to the elevator.

Danny and I ascended in a mahogany-paneled elevator that was operated by a young man dressed like a nineteenth-century Swiss army marshal. I said to Danny in hushed tones, “Remember what I told you. No matter how this goes down, we leave the table saying we’re not interested. Okay?”

Danny nodded.

We exited the elevator and walked down a long mahogany-paneled hallway that reeked of wealth. It was so quiet I felt like I was inside a casket, but I fought the urge to draw any conclusions about that particular thought. Instead, I took a deep breath and kept heading toward the tall, slender figure at the end of the hallway.

“Ahhh, Mr. Belfort! Mr. Porush! Good morning to both of you!” said Jean Jacques Saurel in warm tones. We exchanged handshakes. Then he fixed me with a wry smile and added, “I trust that your stay has improved since that nasty business at the airport. You must tell me over coffee about your adventure with the stewardess!”

He winked at me.

What a guy! I thought. He wasn’t your typical Swiss Frog, that was for sure. He was definitely a piece of Eurotrash, but, still, he was so… suavethat there was no way he could be Swiss. He had olive skin and dark brown hair, which he wore slicked back tight, like a true Wall Streeter. His face was long and thin, as were his features, but everything fit together nicely. He wore an immaculate navy worsted suit with chalk-gray pinstripes, a white dress shirt with French cuffs, and a blue silk necktie that looked expensive. His clothes hung on his frame oh so sweetly, in a way that only those European bastards could pull off.

We had a brief conversation in the hallway, during which I found out that Jean Jacques wasn’t actually Swiss but French, on loan from the bank’s Paris branch. That made sense. Then he impressed the hell out of me by stating that he was uncomfortable having Gary Kaminsky attend this meeting but since it was he, Gary, who had made the introduction, it was unavoidable. He suggested that we take things only so far and then meet personally either later today or tomorrow. I told him that I was already planning to end the meeting on a negative note for that very same reason. He pursed his lips and nodded approvingly, as if to say, “Not bad!” I didn’t even bother looking at Danny. I knew he was impressed.

Jean Jacques escorted us into a conference room that looked more like a men’s smoking club than anything else. There were six Swiss Frogs sitting around a long glass conference table, each dressed in traditional business attire. Each of them was holding a lit cigarette or had one burning in an ashtray in front of them. From top to bottom the room was filled with a giant cloud of smoke.

And then there was Kaminsky. He was sitting amid the Frogs with that awful toupee lying on his skull like a dead animal. On his fat round face was a shit-eating grin that made me want to smack him. For a brief instant I considered asking him to leave the room, but I decided against it. Better he should witness the meeting and hear with his own ears that I had decided against doing business in Switzerland.

After a few minutes of small talk, I said, “I’m curious about your bank secrecy laws. I’ve heard many conflicting things from attorneys back in the United States. Under what circumstances would you cooperate with the U.S. government?”

Kaminsky replied, “That’s the best part of doing business in—”

I cut him off. “Gary, if I was interested in your opinion on this matter I would’ve fuckin—” I stopped myself, realizing that these Swiss robots probably wouldn’t appreciate my usual fuck-speak. Then I humbly said, “Excuse me, everyone—I would’ve asked you for it when we were back in New York, Gary.”

The Frogs smiled and nodded their heads. The unspoken message was: “Yes, this Kaminsky is as great a fool as he looks.” But now my mind was racing ahead. Obviously, Kaminsky was going to get some sort of finder’s fee if I decided to do business with the bank. Why else would he be so anxious to mollify my concerns? Originally I had thought that Kaminsky was just another schnook who liked to show how much he knew about an obscure topic. Wall Street was full of those sorts of people. Dilettantes, they were called. But now I was convinced that Kaminsky’s motivation was financial. If I were to actually open an account at the bank, he would be alerted through the receipt of his finder’s fee. That was a problem.

As if he were reading my mind, Jean Jacques said, “Mr. Kaminsky has always been quick to offer his opinion on matters such as these. I find that rather odd, considering he has nothing to gain or lose on your decision. He has already been paid a small finder’s fee just for bringing you here. Whether or not you choose to do business with Union Banc does not bear on Mr. Kaminsky’s pocketbook one way or the other.”

I nodded in understanding. I found it interesting that Saurel didn’t speak in wishes. He had a complete command of the English language, idioms and all.

Saurel plowed on: “But to answer your question, the only way the Swiss government would cooperate with the U.S. government would be if the alleged crime was also a crime in Switzerland. For example, in Switzerland, there is no law regarding tax evasion. So if we were to receive a request from the United States government regarding such a matter, we would not cooperate with them.”

“Mr. Saurel is entirely correct,” said the bank’s vice president, a thin little Frog with spectacles, who went by the name of Pierre something or other. “We have no great affection for your government. You would please not take offense at this. But the fact remains that we would cooperate only if the alleged crime is a penal offense, or, as you would say it, a felony.”

Then a second Pierre chimed in, although this one was younger and was bald as a cue ball. He said, “You would find that the Swiss penal code is far more liberal than that of your own country. Many of your felonies are not considered felonies in Switzerland.”

Christ almighty! The word felonywas enough to send a shiver down my spine. In fact, it was already obvious that there were huge problems with my preconceived notion of using Switzerland as a rathole…unless, of course…well…could ratholes be legal in Switzerland? I ran the possibility through my mind. No, I strongly doubted it, but I would have to inquire about it when I met with Saurel in private. I smiled and said, “Well, I’m really not concerned about that sort of thing, because I have absolutely no intention of breaking any U.S. laws.” That was a bold-faced lie. But I loved the way it sounded. Who cared that it was a boatload of crap? For some inexplicable reason it still made me feel more at ease about being in Switzerland. I soldiered on: “And when I say that, I speak for Danny as well. You see, our sole reason for wanting to have money in Switzerland is for asset protection. My primary concern is that in my line of work there exists a great likelihood of getting sued—wrongfully, I might add. But either way what I’d like to know—or, to put it more bluntly, what’s most important to me—is that under no circumstances will you turn any of my money over to a U.S. citizen or, for that matter, any person on the planet who happens to get a civil judgment against me.”

Saurel smiled. “Not only would we never do that,” he mused, “but we don’t even recognize anything that is—as you say—civil. Even if we were to get a subpoena from your Securities and Exchange Commission—which is a civil regulatory body—we would not cooperate with them under any circumstances.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “And that would be even if the alleged offense is a felony under Swiss law.” He nodded to drive his point home. “Even then we would still not cooperate!” He smiled a conspirator’s smile.

I nodded approvingly and then looked around the room. Everyone seemed to be pleased with the way things were going, everyone except me. I couldn’t have been more turned off. Saurel’s last comment had struck a nerve with me, sending my brain into overdrive. The simple fact was that if the Swiss government refused to cooperate with an SEC investigation, then the SEC would have no choice but to refer their request over to the U.S. Attorney’s office for a criminal investigation. Talk about being the agent of your own demise!

I began playing out possible scenarios in my mind. Ninety percent of all SEC cases were settled at the civil level. It was only when the SEC felt something overly egregious was going on that they referred the case to the FBI for criminal investigation. But if the SEC couldn’t run their investigation—if they were stonewalled by the Swiss—how could they decide what was egregious and what was not? In truth, much of what I was doing wasn’t all that terrible, was it?

I took a deep breath and said, “Well, it all sounds reasonable to me, but I wonder how the U.S. government would even know where to look—meaning how would they know which Swiss bank to send a subpoena to? None of the accounts have names; they’re just numbered. So unless someone tipped them off”—I resisted the urge to look at Kaminsky—“as to where you were keeping your money, or unless you were careless enough to leave a paper trail of some sort, then how would they even know where to start? Do they have to guess your account number? There must be a thousand banks in Switzerland, and each one of them probably has a hundred thousand accounts. That’s millions of accounts, all with different account numbers. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. It would be impossible.” I looked directly into Saurel’s dark eyes.

After a few moments of silence, Saurel replied, “That is another excellent question. But to answer, I would ask you to oblige me the opportunity to give you a small lesson in Swiss banking history.”

This was getting good. The importance of understanding the implications of the past was exactly what Al Abrams had drilled into my head during all those early-morning breakfast meetings. I nodded and said, “Please do. I’m actually fascinated with history, especially when it pertains to a situation like this, where I’m contemplating doing business in unfamiliar territory.”

Saurel smiled and said, “The whole notion of numbered accounts is somewhat misleading. While it’s true that all Swiss banks offer our clients this option—as a means of maintaining their privacy—each account is tied to a name, which is kept on record at the bank.”

With that statement my heart sank. Saurel continued, “Many years ago, before World War Two, that was not the case. You see, back then it was standard practice among Swiss bankers to open an account without a name being attached to it. Everything was based on personal relationships and a handshake. Many of these accounts were held in the names of corporations. But unlike corporations in the United States, these were bearer corporations, which, again, had no name attached to them. In other words, whoever was the actual bearer of the corporation’s physical stock certificates would be deemed the rightful owner.

“But then came Adolf Hitler and the despicable Nazis. This is a very sad chapter in our history and one that we are not particularly proud of. We did our best to help as many of our Jewish clients as we possibly could, but in the end I would say that we did not help enough. As you know, Mr. Belfort, I am French, but I think I speak for every man in this room when I say that we wish we had done more.” With that, he paused and nodded his head solemnly.

Every man in the room, including the court jester himself, Kaminsky, a Jew in his own right, nodded in sympathy. I assumed that everyone knew that Danny and I were both Jewish, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Saurel had said these things for our benefit. Or had he really meant what he’d said? Either way, before he began speaking I had already gone ten steps ahead and knew exactly where he was going next. The simple fact was that before Hitler was able to sweep through Europe and round up six million Jews and exterminate them in the gas chambers, many were able to move their money into Switzerland. They had seen the handwriting on the wall back in the early thirties, when the Nazis were first coming to power. But smuggling out their money had proved to be much easier than smuggling out themselves. Virtually every country in Europe, with the exception of Denmark, denied millions of desperate Jews safe haven within their borders. Most of these countries had cut secret deals with Hitler, agreeing to turn over their Jewish populations if Hitler agreed not to attack. These were agreements that Hitler quickly reneged on, once he had all the Jews safely tucked away in concentration camps. And as country after country fell to the Nazis, the Jews ran out of places to hide. How very ironic it was that Switzerland had been so quick to accept Jewish money yet so reluctant to accept Jewish souls.