Текст книги "The Wolf of Wall Street "

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I needed to focus on the kids—the Strattonites! They were the ticket! I had a plan and I would stick to it: the slow phaseout; keeping myself behind the scenes; keeping the troops calm; keeping peace among the brokerage firms; and keeping the Depraved Chinaman at bay.

As I approached Janet’s desk, I noticed she had the grim expression on her face that spelled trouble. Her eyes were open a bit wider than usual and her lips were slightly parted. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, and the moment we locked eyes she rose from her chair and headed directly for me. I wondered whether she had somehow caught wind of what was going on with the SEC. The only people who knew were Danny, Ike, and myself, but Wall Street was a funny place like that, and news had a way of traveling remarkably fast. In fact, there was an old Wall Street saying that went: “Good news travels fast, but bad news travels instantly.”

She compressed her lips. “I got a call from Visual Image, and they said they need to speak to you right away. They said it was absolutely urgent they talk to you this afternoon.”

“Who the fuck is Visual Image? I’ve never even heard of them!”

“Yes you have; they’re the ones who did your wedding video, remember? You flew them down to Anguilla; there were two of them, a man and a woman. She had blond hair and he had brown. She was dressed—”

I cut Janet off. “Yeah, yeah, I remember now. I don’t need a full-blown description.” I shook my head in amazement at Janet’s memory for detail. If I hadn’t cut her off she would have told me what color panty hose the girl wore. “Who was it that called: the guy or the girl?”

“The guy. And he sounded nervous. He said that if he didn’t speak to you in the next few hours, it would be a problem.”

A problem? What the fuck? That made no sense! What could my wedding videographer possibly need to speak to me about that was so urgent? Could it be something that happened at my wedding? I took a moment to search my memory…Well, it would be highly unlikely, in spite of the fact that I had received a warning from the tiny Caribbean island of Anguilla. I had flown down three hundred of my closest friends (friends?) for an all-expenses-paid vacation at one of the finest hotels in the world: the Malliouhana. It cost me over a million dollars, and at the end of the week the island’s president informed me that the only reason everyone wasn’t under arrest for drug possession was because I’d given the island so much business that they felt turning a blind eye was the least they could do. But he further assured me that everyone who’d attended would be on a watch list and that if they ever decided to come back to Anguilla they had best leave their drugs behind. That was three years ago though, so this couldn’t have anything to do with that—or could it?

I said to Janet, “Get the guy on the phone. I’ll take it in my office.” I turned and started to walk away, then over my shoulder I said, “By the way, what’s his name?”

“Steve. Steve Burstein.”

A few seconds later the phone on my desk beeped. I exchanged quick hellos with Steve Burstein, the president of Visual Image, a small mom-and-pop operation somewhere on the South Shore of Long Island.

Steve said in a concerned tone: “Um…well…I don’t know quite how to say this to you…I mean…you were really good to my wife and me. You…you treated us like guests at your own wedding. You and Nadine couldn’t have been any nicer to us. And it was really the nicest wedding I’ve ever been to and—”

I interrupted him. “Listen, Steve, I appreciate the fact that you enjoyed my wedding, but I’m kind of busy right now. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on.”

“Well,” he replied, “there were two FBI agents in here today and they asked me for a copy of your wedding video.”

And just like that, I knew my life would never be the same again.

CHAPTER 23

WALKING A FINE LINE

Nine days after I’d received that poisonous phone call from Visual Image, I was sitting in world-famous Rao’s restaurant in East Harlem, engaged in a heated debate with legendary private investigator Richard Bo Dietl, known simply to his friends as Bo.

Although we were at a table for eight, there would be only one other person joining us this evening, namely, Special Agent Jim Barsini ^*6of the FBI, who was a casual friend of Bo’s and, hopefully, would soon be a casual friend of mine too. Bo had arranged this meeting, and Barsini was due to arrive in fifteen minutes.

At this particular moment, Bo was doing the talking and I was doing the listening, or, more accurately, Bo was lecturing and I was listening and grimacing. The topic was an inspired notion I’d had to try to bug the FBI, which, according to Bo, was one of the most outlandish things he’d ever heard.

Bo was saying, “…and that’s simply not the way you go about things, Bo.” Bo had this odd habit of calling his friends Bo, which I found confusing sometimes, particularly when I was Luded out. Thankfully, I was able to follow him just fine tonight, because I was sober as a judge, which seemed like the appropriate state to be in when meeting an FBI agent for the first time, especially one who I was hoping to befriend—and then subsequently gather intelligence from.

Nevertheless, I did have four Ludes in my pocket, which at this very moment were burning a hole in my gray slacks, and in the inside pocket of my navy-blue sport jacket I had an eight ball of coke, which was calling my name in a most seductive tone. But, no, I was determined to stay strong—at least until after Agent Barsini went back to wherever it was FBI agents went back to after they ate dinner, which was probably home. Originally I had planned to eat light, so as not to interfere with my upcoming high, but right now the smell of roasted garlic and home-cooked tomato sauce was bathing my olfactory nerve in a most delicious way.

“Listen, Bo,” continued Bo, “getting information out of the FBI isn’t difficult in a case like this. In fact, I already got some for you. But listen to me—before I tell you anything—there are certain protocols you gotta follow here or else you’re gonna get your ass caught in a sling. The first is that you don’tgo around planting bugs in their fucking offices.” He started shaking his head in amazement. It was something he’d been doing a lot of since we sat down fifteen minutes ago. “The second is that you don’t try bribing their secretaries—or anyone else, for that matter.” With that, he shook his head some more. “And you don’t follow their agents around, trying to find shit out about their personal lives.” This time he shook his head quickly and began rolling his eyes up in his head, the way a person does after they’ve just heard something that defies logic in such a dramatic way that they have to shake off the effect.

I stared out the restaurant’s window to avoid Bo’s blazing gaze, at which point I found myself staring right smack into the gloomy groin of East Harlem and wondering why on earth the best Italian restaurant in New York City had to pick this fucking cesspool of a neighborhood for its location. But then I reminded myself that Rao’s had been in business for over a hundred years, since the late 1800s, and Harlem was a different sort of neighborhood back then.

And the fact that Bo and I were sitting alone at a table for eight was a much bigger deal than it seemed—given the fact that a dinner reservation at Rao’s needed to be booked five years in advance. In truth, though, getting a reservation at this quaint little anachronism was all but impossible. All twelve of the restaurant’s tables were owned,“condo-style,” by a select handful of New Yorkers, who more than being rich were very well connected.

Physically, Rao’s was no great shakes. On this particular evening, the restaurant was decorated for Christmas, which had nothing to do with that fact that it was January 14. In August, it would stillbe decorated for Christmas. That was the way of things at Rao’s, where everything was reminiscent of a much simpler time, where food was served family-style, and Italian music played from a fifties-style jukebox in the corner. As the night progressed, Frankie Pellegrino, the restaurant’s owner, would sing for his guests, as men of respect congregated at the bar and smoked cigars and greeted one another Mafia-style, while the women stared at them adoringly, the way they did back in the good-old days, whenever those were. And the men would rise from their chairs and bow to the women each time they went to the bathroom, the way they did back in the good-old days, whenever those were.

On any given night, half the restaurant was filled with world-class athletes, A-list movie stars, and captains of industry, while the other half was filled with real-life mobsters.

Anyway, it was Bo, not I, who was the table’s well-connected owner, and true to this tiny restaurant’s star-studded list of patrons, Bo Dietl was a man whose star was seriously on the rise. Only forty years old, Bo was a legend in the making. Back in his day, in the mid 1980s, he was one of the most highly decorated cops in NYPD history—making over seven hundred arrests, in some of New York’s toughest neighborhoods, including Harlem. He had made a big name for himself cracking cases that no one else could crack, finally jumping into the national spotlight after solving one of the most heinous crimes ever committed in Harlem: the rape of a white nun by two cash-strapped crack fiends.

At first glance, though, Bo didn’t look that tough, what with his boyishly handsome face, perfectly coiffed beard, and slightly thinning light brown hair, which he wore combed straight back over his roundish skull. He wasn’t a huge guy—maybe five-ten, two hundred pounds—but he was broad in the chest and thick in the neck, the latter of which was the size of a gorilla’s. Bo was one of the sharpest dressers in town, favoring $2,000 silk suits and heavily starched white dress shirts with French cuffs and wiseguy collars. He wore a gold watch heavy enough to do wrist curls with and a diamond pinky ring the size of an ice cube.

It was no secret that much of Bo’s success when it came to cracking cases had to do with his rearing. He was born and raised in a part of Ozone Park, Queens, where he was surrounded by mobsters on one side and cops on the other. In consequence, he developed the unique ability to walk a fine line between the two—using the respect he’d garnered with local Mafia chieftains to crack cases that couldn’t be cracked through traditional means. Over time, he developed a reputation as a man who kept his contacts confidential and who used the information passed along to him only toward stamping out street crime, which seemed to get under his skin more than anything else. He was loved and respected by his friends, and he was loathed and feared by his enemies.

Never one to put up with bureaucratic bullshit, Bo retired from the NYPD at thirty-five and quickly parlayed his storied reputation (and even more storied connections) into one of the fastest-growing and most well-respected private security firms in America. It was for this very reason that two years ago I had first sought out Bo and retained his services—to build and maintain a first-class security operation within Stratton Oakmont.

More than once I had called upon Bo to scare away the occasional mid-level thug who made the mistake of trying to muscle in on Stratton’s operations. Just what Bo would say to these people I wasn’t quite sure. All I knew was that I would make one phone call to Bo, who would then “sit the person down,” at which point I would never hear from them again. (Although one time I did receive a rather nice bouquet of flowers.)

At the upper levels of the Mob there was a silent understanding, independent of Bo, that rather than trying to muscle in on Stratton’s operations, it was more profitable for the bosses to send their young bucks to work for us, so they could be properly trained. Then, after a year or so, these Mafioso plants would leave quietly—almost gentlemanly, in fact—so as not to disturb Stratton’s operations. Then they would open Mafia-backed brokerage firms at the behest of their masters.

Over the last two years, Bo had become involved with all aspects of Stratton’s security—even investigating the companies we were taking public, making sure that we weren’t getting scammed by fraudulent operators. And unlike most of his competitors, Bo Dietl and Associates wasn’t coming up with the sort of generic information any computer geek could pull off LexisNexis. No, Bo’s people were getting their fingernails dirty, uncovering things one would think impossible to uncover. And while there was no denying that his services didn’t come cheap, what you got was value for your money.

In point of fact: Bo Dietl was the best in the business.

I was still staring out the window when Bo said to me, “What’s on your mind, Bo? You’re staring out that fucking window like you’re gonna find some answers in the street.”

I paused for a brief moment, considering whether or not I should tell him that the only reason I’d considered bugging the FBI was because of the tremendous success I’d had at bugging the SEC, which was something he’dinadvertently paved the way for by introducing me to the former CIA guys who sold me the bugs behind his back. One of the bugs looked like an electrical plug, and it had been sticking in a wall outlet in the conference room for over a year, drawing power from the very outlet itself, so it never ran out of batteries. It was a wonderful little contraption!

Nevertheless, I decided now was not the time to share that little secret with Bo. I said, “It’s just that I’m dead serious about fighting this whole thing. I have no intention of rolling over and playing dead because some FBI agent is running around asking questions about me. I have too much at stake here, and there are too many people involved just to walk away from this. So now that your mind’s at ease, tell me what you found out, okay?”

Bo nodded, but before he answered me, he picked up a large glass of single-malt scotch and threw back what had to be three or four shots, as if it were no stronger than H ₂O. Then he puckered up his lips. “ Whewwwww-boy!That’s the ticket!” Finally he plowed on: “For starters, the investigation is still in its early stages, and it’s all being driven by this guy Coleman, Special Agent Gregory Coleman. No one else in the office has any interest in it; they all think it’s a loser. And as far as the U.S. Attorney’s Office goes, they’re not interested either. The AUSA on the case is a guy named Sean O’Shea, and from what I hear, he’s a pretty decent guy, not a scumbag prosecutor.

“There’s a lawyer named Greg O’Connell who’s a good friend of mine, and he used to work with Sean O’Shea. He reached out to Sean for me, and according to Greg, Sean couldn’t give a rat’s ass about your case. You were right when you said they don’t do a lot of securities cases out there. They do more Mob-related stuff, because they cover Brooklyn. So in that respect you’re lucky. But the word on this guy Coleman is he’s very dogged. He talks about you like you’re some kinda star. He holds you in very high regard, and not in the way you want. It sounds like he’s a bit obsessed with the whole thing.”

I shook my head gravely. “Well that’sgreat to fucking hear! An obsessed FBI agent! Where did he come from all of a sudden? Why now? It must have something to do with the SEC settlement offer. Those bastards are double-dealing me.”

“Calm down, Bo. It’s not as bad as it seems. This has nothing to do with the SEC. It’s just that Coleman is intrigued with you. Probably more to do with all the press you’re getting than anything else, this whole Wolf of Wall Street thing.” He started shaking his head. “All those stories about the drugs and the hookers and the big spending. It’s pretty intoxicating stuff for a young FBI agent making forty grand a year. And this guy Coleman is young, in his early thirties, I think; not much older than you. So just think of the harsh reality of this guy looking at your tax return and seeing that you make more in an hour than he makes in a year. And then he sees your wife prancing across the TV screen.”

Bo shrugged. “Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that you should try keeping a low profile for a while. Maybe take an extended vacation or something, which makes perfect sense considering your SEC settlement. When is that gonna be announced?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure,” I replied. “Probably in a week or two.”

Bo nodded. “Well, the good news is that Coleman’s got a reputation for being a pretty straight shooter. He’s not like the agent you’re gonna meet tonight, who’s a real fucking wild man. I mean, if you had Jim Barsini on your tail—well, it would be very bad news. He’s already shot two or three people, one of them with a high-powered rifle after the perp had his hands up in the air. It was one of those things where he said, ‘FBI– bang!—Freeze! Put your hands in the air!’ You get the picture, Bo?”

Jesus Christ! I thought. My only salvation in this thing was a whacked-out FBI agent with an itchy trigger finger?

Bo plowed on: “So it ain’t all bad, Bo. This guy Coleman isn’t the sort of guy who’s gonna fabricate evidence against you and go around threatening your Strattonites with life sentences, and he’s not the sort of guy who’s gonna terrorize your wife. But—”

I cut Bo off with great concern in my voice. “What do you mean, terrorize my wife? How can he drag Nadine into this? She hasn’t done anything, except spend a lot of money.” The mere thought of Nadine getting caught up in this sent my spirits plunging to unprecedented levels.

Bo’s voice took on the tone of a psychiatrist talking a patient off the ledge of a ten-story building. “Now, calm down, Bo. Coleman’s not a harassing sort of guy. All I was trying to say is that it’s not unheard of for an agent to put pressure on a husband by going after his wife. But that doesn’t apply in your situation, because Nadine’s not involved in any of your business dealings, right?”

“Of course not!” I replied with great certainty, and then I quickly rifled through my business dealings to see if what I’d just said was true. I came to the sad conclusion that it wasn’t. “The truth is I’ve done a couple a trades in her name, but nothing so bad. I’d say her liability is pretty much zero. But I’d never let it come to that, Bo. I’d sooner plead guilty and let them put me away for twenty years than let them indict my wife.”

Bo nodded slowly and replied, “As would any real man. But my point is that they know that too, and they might view that as a point of weakness. Again, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves here. The investigation is in its very early stages, more a fishing expedition than anything else right now. If you’re lucky, Coleman will stumble onto something else…an unrelated case…and he’ll lose interest in you. Just be careful, Bo, and you’ll be fine.”

I nodded. “You can count on it.”

“Good. Well, Barsini should be here in a second, so let’s go over a few ground rules. First, don’t bring up your case. It’s not that kinda meeting. It’s just a bunch of friends shooting the shit. No talk of investigations or anything like that. You start by developing a casual friendship with him. Remember, we’re not trying to get this guy to give you info he’s not supposed to give you.” He shook his head for emphasis. “The truth is that if Coleman reallyhas a bug up his ass for you, there’s nothing Barsini can do. It’s only if Coleman doesn’t have anything on you and he’s just being a prick—then Barsini could say, ‘Hey, I know the guy and he’s not so bad, so why don’t you cut him a break?’ Remember, Bo, the last thing you want to be accused of is trying to corrupt an FBI agent. They’ll throw you in jail for a long time for that.”

Then Bo raised his eyebrows, and added, “But, on the flip side, there’s some information that we canget from Barsini. See, the truth is that there are some things that Coleman might wantyou to know, and he can use Barsini as a conduit for that. Who knows? You might actually strike up a friendship with Barsini. He’s a pretty good guy, actually. He’s a crazy bastard but, then again, which of us isn’t, right?”

I nodded in agreement. “Well, I’m not the judgmental type, Bo. I hate judgmental people. I think they’re the worst sort, don’t you?”

Bo smirked. “Right. I figured you’d feel that way. Trust me when I tell you that Barsini is not your typical FBI type. He’s a former SEAL—or maybe Marine Force Recon—I’m not sure which. But one thing you should know about Barsini is that he’s an avid scuba diver, so you two have that in common. Maybe you could invite him on your yacht or something, especially if this whole Coleman thing turns out to be no big deal. Having a friend in the FBI is never a bad thing.”

I smiled at Bo and resisted the urge to jump across the table and plant a wet kiss on his lips. Bo was a true warrior, an asset so valuable that it couldn’t be calculated. How much was I paying him, between Stratton and personal? Over half a million a year, maybe more. And he was worth every penny. I asked, “What’s this guy know about me? Does he know I’m under investigation?”

Bo shook his head. “Absolutely not. I told him very little about you. Just that you were a good client of mine as well as a good friend. And both of those statements are true—which is why I’m doing this, Bo, out of friendship.”

In lockstep, I replied, “And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, Bo. I won’t forget—”

Bo cut me off. “Here he is now.” He gestured toward the window, to a fortyish man entering the restaurant. He was about six-two, two-twenty, and was sporting an extreme crew cut. He had gruff, handsome features, piercing brown eyes, and an incredibly square jaw. In fact, he looked like he belonged on a recruiting poster for a right-wing paramilitary group.

“Big Bo!” exclaimed the world’s least likely FBI agent. “ Myyyyyyman! What the fuck are you up to, and where the fuck did you find this restaurant? I mean—Jesus Christ, Bo—I could get some target practice in this neck of the woods!” He cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows, as if to imply the very logic of his observation. Then he added, “But, hey, that’s not my concern. I only shoot bank robbers, right?” That last insane comment was directed at me, accompanied by a warm smile, to which Special Agent Barsini then added, “And you must be Jordan. Well it’s nice to meet you, bud! Bo told me you got a kick-ass boat—or ship, actually—and he said you like to scuba dive. Let me shake your hand.” He extended his hand to me. I quickly reached for it and was surprised to find that his hand was nearly twice the size of my own. After nearly pulling my arm out of my shoulder socket, he finally released me from his clutches and we all sat down.

I was about to continue the subject of scuba diving, but I never got the chance. Special Agent Madman was immediately off on a rant. “I’ll tell you,” he said with piss and vinegar, “this neighborhood’s a real fucking cesspool.” He shook his head in disgust and leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, which had the effect of exposing the enormous revolver on his waist.

“Well, Bo,” said Bo to Barsini, “you got no argument from me in that department. Know how many people I locked up when I worked this neighborhood? You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Half of them were the same fucking people over again! I remember this one guy, he was the size of a fucking gorilla. He snuck up behind me with a garbage-can lid and smashed me over the top of the head, nearly turning my lights out. Then he went after my partner, and he knocked him out cold.”

I raised my eyebrows and said, “So what happened to the guy? Did you catch him?”

“Yeah, of course I did,” replied Bo, almost insulted. “He didn’t knock me out cold; he only fazed me. I came to while he was still whaling on my partner, and I took the lid from him and pounded him over the head for a few minutes. But he had one of those extra-thick skulls, like a fucking coconut.” Bo shrugged, then finished his story with: “He lived.”

“Well that’s a damn fucking shame,” replied the federal agent. “You’re too soft, Bo. I woulda ripped out the guy’s trachea and fed it to him. You know, there’s a way to do that without even getting a drop a blood on your hands. It’s all in the snap of the wrist. It makes a sort of popping sound, like”—the federal agent pressed the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth and compressed his cheeks and then released– “POP!”

Just then the restaurant’s owner, Frank Pellegrino—also known as Frankie No, because he was always saying no to people who asked him for a table—came over to introduce himself to Agent Barsini. Frank was dressed so smartly, and matched so perfectly, and was so freshly pressed, that I would’ve sworn he’d just emerged from a dry cleaner. He wore a dark-blue three-piece suit with thick chalk-gray pinstripes. From out of his left breast pocket a white hanky debouched perfectly, flawlessly, brilliantly, in the sort of way only a man like Frankie could pull off. He looked rich and sixtyish, trim and handsome, and he had a unique gift of being able to make every last person at Rao’s feel like they were a guest in his own home.

“You must be Jim Barsini,” Frank Pellegrino said warmly. He extended his hand. “Bo told me all about you. Welcome to Rao’s, Jim.”

With that, Barsini popped out of his chair and began pulling Frank’s arm out of its socket. I watched in fascination as Frank’s perfectly coiffed grayish hair stayed stock-still while the rest of him shook like a rag doll.

“Jesus, Bo,” said Frank to the real Bo, “this guy’s got a handshake like a grizzly bear! He reminds me of…” and with that, Frank Pellegrino began expounding on one of his many tales of men with no necks.

I immediately tuned out, smiling every so often, while I quickly settled on the primary task at hand, which was: What could I possibly say, do, or, for that matter, give to Special Agent Barsini to entice him to tell Special Agent Coleman to leave me the fuck alone? The easiest thing to do, of course, would be to simply bribe Barsini. He didn’t seem like a guy of such high moral standing, did he? Although perhaps this whole soldier-of-fortune thing would make him incorruptible, as if taking money for greed’s sake would somehow dishonor him. How much did they pay an FBI agent? I wondered. Fifty grand a year? How much scuba diving could a man do on that? Not a lot. Besides, there was scuba diving and then there was scuba diving. I’d be willing to pay a pretty penny to have a guardian angel within the FBI, wouldn’t I?

For that matter, what would I be willing to pay Agent Coleman to lose my number forever? A million? Certainly! Two million? Of course! Two million was chump change in the face of a federal indictment and the possibility of financial ruin!

Eh, who was I kidding? These thoughts were all pie in the sky. In fact, a place like Rao’s served as a clear reminder that the government could never be trusted for the long term. It was only three or four decades ago when mobsters did whatever they wanted: They paid off the police force; they paid off politicians; they paid off judges; for Chrissake, they even paid off schoolteachers! But then came the Kennedys, who were mobsters themselves, and they viewed the Mob as competition. So they reneged on all the deals—all those wonderful quid pro quos—and…well, the rest was history.

“…so that was the way he settled it back then,” said Frankie No, finally completing his yarn. “Although he didn’t actually kidnap the chef; he just held him hostage for a while.”

With that, everyone, including me, starting laughing hysterically, in spite of the fact that I’d missed ninety percent of what he’d said. But at Rao’s, missing a story was merely incidental. After all, you kept hearing the same handful of stories over and over again.