Текст книги "The Wolf of Wall Street "

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

I took a deep breath and checked for broken bones. Everything seemed to be in working order. The Real Reals had protected me from harm. It had taken almost ninety minutes for these little fuckers to kick in, but once they had… WOW!I had gone straight past the tingle phase and right into the drool phase. Actually, I had discovered a new phase, somewhere between the drool phase and a state of unconsciousness. It was the…what was it? I needed a name for this phase. It was the cerebral palsy phase! Yes! My brain would no longer send clear signals to my musculoskeletal system. What a wonderful new phase! My brain was sharp as a tack, but I had no control of my body. Too good! Too good!

With a great deal of effort, I craned my neck and saw the receiver still swinging back and forth on its shiny metallic cord. I thought I could hear Bo’s voice screaming, “Tell me where you are and I’ll send Rocco!” although it was probably my imagination playing tricks on me. Fuck it!I thought. What was the point of trying to get back on the phone, anyway? I had officially lost the power of speech.

After five minutes on the floor, it hit me that Danny must be in the same condition. Oh, Jesus! The Duchess must be flipping out right now—wondering where I’d gone! I needed to get home. It was only a couple hundred yards to the estate, literally a straight shot. I could make the drive, couldn’t I? Or perhaps I should walk home. But, no, it was too cold for that. I would probably die of frostbite.

I rolled onto all fours and tried standing up, but it was no use. Every time I lifted my hands off the carpet I tipped over to the side. I would have to crawlback to the car. But what was so bad about that? Chandler crawled, and she seemed to be fine with it.

When I reached the front door I propped myself onto my knees and grabbed the doorknob. I pulled open the door and crawled outside. There was my car…ten stairs down. Try as I might, my brain refused to let me crawl down the stairs, scared at the very possibility of what might happen. So I lay down flat on my stomach and tucked my hands beneath my chest and turned myself into a human barrel and began rolling down the stairs…slow at first…in complete control…and then…oh, shit!…There I go!…Faster…faster… b-boom…b-boom…b-boom…and I hit the asphalt parking lot with a mighty thud.

But, again, the Real Reals protected me from harm, and thirty seconds later I was sitting behind the steering wheel with the ignition on and the car in drive and my chin resting on the steering wheel. Hunched over the way I was, with my eyes barely peering over the dashboard, I looked like one of those blue-haired old ladies who drive in the left lane of the highway, doing twenty.

I pulled out of the parking lot, doing one mile an hour and saying a silent prayer to God. Apparently, He was a kind and loving God, just like the textbooks say, because a minute later I was parked in front of my house, home in one piece. Victory!I thanked the Lord for being the Lord, and after a great deal of effort, I crawled my way into the kitchen, at which point I found myself staring up at the beautiful face of the Duchess…. Uh-oh! I was in for it now!…How angry was she? It was impossible to say.

And then all at once I realized that she wasn’t angry. In fact, she was crying hysterically. Next thing I knew, she had crouched down, and she was giving me warm kisses all over my face and on the top of my head, as she tried speaking through her tears. “Oh, thank God you’re home safe, sweetie! I thought I lost you! I…I”—she couldn’t seem to get the words out—“I love you so much. I thought you crashed the car. Bo called here and said he was speaking to you on the phone and you passed out. And then I went downstairs and Danny was crawling around on his hands and knees, banging into the walls. Here, let me help you up, sweetie.” She picked me up, led me over to the kitchen table, and placed me on a chair. A second later my head hit the table.

“You have to stop doing this,” she begged. “You’re gonna kill yourself, baby. I…I can’t lose you. Please, look at your daughter; she loves you. You’re gonna die if you keep this up.”

I looked over at Chandler, and my daughter and I locked eyes, and she smiled. “Dada!” she said. “Hi, Dada!”

I smiled at my daughter and was about to slur back, I love you,when suddenly I felt two powerful sets of arms pulling me out of my seat and dragging me up the stairs.

Rocco Night said, “Mr. Belfort, you gotta get into bed and go to sleep right now. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Rocco Day added, “Don’t worry, Mr. B. We’ll take care of everything.”

What in the hell were they talking about? I wanted to ask them but I couldn’t get the words out. A minute later I was alone in bed, still fully dressed but with the covers pulled over my head and the room lights out. I took a deep breath, trying to make sense of it all. It was ironic that the Duchess had been so nice to me, yet she had called the bodyguards to come take me upstairs, as if I were a naughty child. Well, fuck it! I thought. The royal bedchamber was very comfortable, and I would enjoy the rest of the cerebral palsy phase just like this, floating amid the Chinese silk.

Just then, the bedroom lights came on. A moment later someone pulled down my glorious white silk comforter and I found myself squinting into an extremely bright flashlight.

“Mr. Belfort,” said an unfamiliar voice, “are you awake, sir?”

Sir?… Who the fuck is calling me sir?…After a few seconds, my eyes adjusted to the light and I found out. It was a policeman—two of them, actually—from the Old Brookville Police Department. They were dressed in full regalia—guns, handcuffs, shiny badges, the whole nine yards. One of them was big and fat with a droopy mustache; the other was short and wiry, with the ruddy skin of a teenager.

All at once I felt a terrible dark cloud descending on me. Something was very wrong here. Agent Coleman had sure worked fast! I was already getting arrested, and the investigation had barely begun! What happened to the wheels of justice grinding slowly? And why would Agent Coleman use the Old Brookville police to arrest me? They were like toy cops, for Chrissake, and their police station was like Mayberry RFD. Was this the way people got arrested for money laundering?

“Mr. Belfort,” said the policeman, “were you driving your car?”

Uh-oh!Stoned as I was, my brain began sending emergency signals to my voice box—instructing it to clam up. “I zon’t zo what zor zalkin azout,” I said.

Apparently that response didn’t go over too well, and next thing I knew I was being escorted down my spiral staircase with my hands cuffed behind my back. When I reached the front door, the fat policeman said, “You had seven different car accidents, Mr. Belfort: six of them were right here on Pin Oak Court, and the other was a head-on collision on Chicken Valley Road. That driver is on her way to the hospital right now with a broken arm. You’re under arrest, Mr. Belfort, for driving under the influence, reckless endangerment, and leaving the scene of an accident.” With that, he read me my rights. When he got to the part about not being able to afford an attorney, he and his partner began snickering.

But what were they talking about? I wasn’t in any accident, much less seven accidents. God had answered my prayer and protected me from harm! They had the wrong person! A case of mistaken identity, I thought…

…until I saw my little Mercedes, at which point my jaw dropped. The car was totaled out, from front to back. The passenger side, which I was now looking at, was completely smashed in, and the rear wheel was bent inward at an extreme angle. The front of the car looked like an accordion, and the rear fender was hanging on the ground. All at once I felt dizzy…my knees buckled…and next thing I knew… bam!…I was on the ground again, looking up at the night sky.

The two policemen bent over me. The fat one said in a concerned tone, “Mr. Belfort, what are you on, sir? Tell us what you’re on so we can help you.”

Well, I thought, if you’d be kind enough to go upstairs into my medicine cabinet, you’ll find a plastic Baggie with two grams of cocaine in it. Please bring it to me and allow me to do a few blasts so I can even out, or else you’ll be carrying me into the police station like an infant! But my better judgment prevailed, and all I said was: “You zot za zong zy!” You got the wrong guy.

The two policemen looked at each other and shrugged. They lifted me up by my armpits and walked me to the police car.

Just then the Duchess came running out, screaming in her Brooklyn accent, “Where the fuck do you think you’re taking my husband? He’s been home with me all night! If you guys don’t let him go you’ll both be working in Toys ’R’ Us next week!”

I turned and looked at the Duchess. She was flanked by a Rocco on either side. The two policemen stopped dead in their tracks. The fat policeman said, “Mrs. Belfort, we know who your husband is, and we have several witnesses that he was driving his car. I suggest you call one of his lawyers. I’m sure he has many of them.” With that, the policemen resumed walking me to their police car.

“Don’t worry,” screamed the Duchess, as I was being placed in the police car’s rear seat. “Bo said he’ll take care of it, sweetie! I love you!”

And as the police car pulled off the estate, all I could think of was how much I loved the Duchess and, for that matter, how much she loved me. I thought about how she’d cried when she thought she’d lost me, and how she stood up for me as the policemen were taking me away in handcuffs. Perhaps now, once and for all, she had finally proved herself to me. Perhaps now, once and for all, I could rest easy—knowing that she would be there for me in good times and bad. Yes, I thought, the Duchess truly loved me.

It was a short ride to the Old Brookville Police Station, which looked more like a quaint private home than anything else. It was white, with green shutters. It looked rather soothing, in fact. It would be a fine place, I thought, to sleep off a bad Quaalude high.

Inside were two jail cells, and pretty soon I found myself sitting in one of them. Actually, I wasn’t sitting; I was lying on the floor with my cheek against the concrete. I vaguely remembered being processed—fingerprinted, photographed, and, in my case, videotaped—to bear witness to the extreme state of my intoxication.

“Mr. Belfort,” said the police officer with his belly hanging over his gun belt like a roll of salami, “we need you to give us a urine sample.”

I sat up—all at once realizing that I was no longer stoned. The true beauty of the Real Reals had come shining through once more, and I was now completely sober. I took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know what you guys think you’re doing, but unless I get a phone call right now you’re gonna be in some deep shit.”

That seemed to stun the bastard, and he said, “ Well,I see whatever you were on finally wore off. I’ll be happy to let you out of your cell, without handcuffs, if you promise not to run.”

I nodded. He opened the cell door and gestured to a telephone on a small wooden desk. I dialed my lawyer’s home number—resisting the urge to draw any conclusions as to why I knew my lawyer’s home phone number by heart.

Five minutes later I was peeing in a cup, wondering why Joe Fahmegghetti, my lawyer, had told me not to worry about testing positive for drugs.

I was back inside my jail, sitting on the floor, when the policeman said, “Well, Mr. Belfort, in case you’re wondering, you tested positive for cocaine, methaqualone, benzodiazepines, amphetamines, MDMA, opiates, and marijuana. In fact, the only thing you’re not showing is hallucinogens. What’s wrong, you don’t like those?”

I offered him a dead smile and said, “Let me tell you something, Mr. Police Officer. As far as this whole driving thing is concerned, you got the wrong fucking guy, and as far as the drug test is concerned, I don’t give a shit what it says. I have a bad back, and everything I take is prescribed by a doctor. So fuck off!”

He stared at me in disbelief. Then he looked at his watch and shrugged. “Well, either way it’s too late for night court, so we’re gonna have to take you to Central Booking in Nassau County. I don’t think you’ve ever been there, have you?”

I resisted the urge to tell the fat bastard to go fuck himself again, and I turned away and shut my eyes. Nassau County lockup was a real hellhole, but what could I do? I looked up at the wall clock: It was just before eleven. Christ! I would be spending the night in jail. What a fucking bummer!

Once more I closed my eyes and tried to drift off to sleep. Then I heard my name being called. I stood up and looked through the bars—and I saw a rather bizarre sight. There was an old bald man in pin-striped pajamas staring at me.

“Are you Jordan Belfort?” he asked, annoyed.

“Yeah, why?”

“I’m Judge Stevens. I’m a friend of a friend. Consider this your arraignment. I assume you’re willing to waive your right to counsel, right?” He winked.

“Yeah,” I replied eagerly.

“Okay, I’ll take that as a plea of not guilty to whatever it is you’re being charged with. I’m releasing you on your own recognizance. Call Joe to find out when your court date is.” With that, he smiled, wheeled about, and left the police station.

A few minutes later I found Joe Fahmegghetti waiting for me out front. Even at this time of night, he was dressed like a starched dandy, in an immaculate navy suit and striped tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly coiffed. I smiled at him and then held up one finger, as if to say, “Hold on a sec!” Then I peeked back into the police station and said to the fat policeman, “Excuse me!”

He looked up. “Yes?”

I shot him the middle finger and said, “You can take Central Booking and shove it up your ass!”

On the car ride home I said to my lawyer, “I’m in deep shit with that urine test, Joe. I tested positive for everything.”

My lawyer shrugged. “Whaddaya worried about? You think I’d steer you wrong? They didn’t actually catch you in the car, now, did they? So how can they prove those drugs were in your system while you were driving? Who’s to say you didn’t walk in the door and take a few Ludes and snort a little coke? And it’s not illegal to have drugs in your system; it’s only illegal to possess them. In fact, I’m willing to bet I’ll get the whole arrest thrown out on the grounds that Nadine never gave the police permission to come on the property in the first place. You’ll just have to pay for the damage to the other car—they’re only charging you with one accident, because there were no witnesses to the others—and then you’ll have to pay some hush money to the woman whose arm you broke. The whole thing won’t run you more than a hundred thousand.” He shrugged, as if to say, “Chump change!”

I nodded my head. “Where’d you find that crazy old judge? What a lifesaver he was!”

“You don’t wanna know,” replied my lawyer, rolling his eyes. “Let’s just say he’s a friend of a friend.”

The remainder of the ride was spent in silence. As we pulled onto the estate, Joe said, “Your wife is in bed, pretty shaken up. So go easy on her. She’s been crying for hours, but I think she’s pretty much calmed down now. Anyway, Bo was here with her most of the night, and he was a big help. He left about fifteen minutes ago.”

I nodded again, without speaking.

Joe added, “Just remember, Jordan: A broken arm is one thing, but no one can fix a dead body. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, Joe, but it’s a moot point. I’m done with all that shit. Done for good.” And we shook hands, and that was that.

Upstairs in the master bedroom, I found the Duchess lying in bed. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, then quickly undressed and climbed into bed with her. We stared up at the white silk canopy, our naked bodies touching at the shoulders and the hips. I grabbed her hand and held it in mine.

In a soft voice, I said, “I don’t remember anything, Nae. I blacked out. I think that I—”

She cut me off. “Shhh, don’t talk, baby. Just lie here and relax.” She gripped my hand tighter, and we lay there silently for what seemed like a very long time.

I squeezed her hand. “I’m done, Nae. I swear. And this time I’m dead serious about it. I mean, if this isn’t a sign from God, then I don’t know what is.” I leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek. “But I gotta do something about my back pain. I can’t live this way anymore. It’s unbearable. And it’s feeding into things.” I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. “I want to go to Florida and see Dr. Green. He has a back clinic down there, and they have a really high cure rate. But whatever happens, I promise you I’m done with drugs once and for all. I know Quaaludes aren’t the answer; I know it’ll end in disaster.”

The Duchess rolled onto her side to face me, and she put her arm across my chest and hugged me gently. Then she told me that she loved me. I kissed her on the top of her blond head and took a deep breath to relish her scent. Then I told her that I loved her back and that I was sorry. I promised her that nothing like this would ever happen again.

I would be right about that.

Worse would.

CHAPTER 26

DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES

Two mornings later, I woke up to a phone call from licensed Florida real estate broker Kathy Green, wife of world-renowned neurosurgeon Dr. Barth Green. I had enlisted Kathy to find the Duchess and me a place to live while I was going through the four-week outpatient program at Jackson Memorial Hospital.

“You and Nadine will just adore Indian Creek Island,” said a kindhearted Kathy. “It’s one of the quietest places to live in all Miami. It’s soserene and souneventful. They even have their own police force—so given how security-conscious you and Nadine are, it’s another plus.”

Quiet and uneventful? Well, I waslooking to get away from it all, wasn’t I? So how much harm could I create in four short weeks, especially in a place as boring and peaceful as Indian Creek Island? A place where I’d be insulated from the pressures of a cold, cruel world, namely: Quaaludes, cocaine, crack, pot, Xanax, Valium, Ambien, speed, morphine, and, of course, Special Agent Gregory Coleman.

I said, “Well, Kathy, it sounds like just what the doctor ordered, especially the part about the place being peaceful. What’s the house like?”

“The house is absolutely breathtaking. It’s a white Mediterranean mansion with a red tile roof, and there’s a boat slip big enough for an eighty-foot yacht…” Kathy’s voice trailed off for a moment. “…which, I guess, wouldn’t quite fit the Nadine,but perhaps you can buy a boat while you’re down here, right? I’m sure Barth could help you with that.” The sheer logic of her wacky suggestion oozed over the phone line with each of her words. “Anyway, the backyard is fabulous; it has an Olympic-size swimming pool, a cabana, a wet bar, a gas barbecue, and a six-person Jacuzzi overlooking the bay. It’s absolutely perfect for entertaining. And the best part is that the owner’s willing to sell the house, completely furnished, for only $5.5 million. It’s quite a bargain.”

Wait a second!Who said anything about wanting to buy a house? I was only going to be in Florida for four weeks! And why would I consider getting another boat when I despised the one I already had? I said, “To tell you the truth, Kathy, I’m not looking to buy a house right now, at least not in Florida. You think the owner would consider renting it for a month?”

“No,” said a glum Kathy Green, whose hopes and dreams of a six percent real estate commission on a $5.5-million sale had just evaporated right before her big blue eyes. “It’s only listed for sale.”

“Hmmm,” I replied, not quite convinced of that fact. “Why don’t you offer the guy a hundred grand for the month and see what he says?”

On April Fool’s Day, I was moving in and the owner was moving out—skipping and humming, no doubt, all the way to a five-star hotel in South Beach for the month. That aside, April Fool’s Day was the perfect move-in date, given my discovery that Indian Creek Island was a sanctuary for a little-known endangered species called the Old Blue-haired WASP, which, as Kathy had previously indicated, was about as lively a species as the sea slug.

On the brighter side, in between my car accident and the back clinic I’d managed to jet into Switzerland and meet with Saurel and the Master Forger. My goal was to find out how the FBI had become aware of my Swiss accounts. To my surprise, though, everything seemed to be in order. The U.S. government had made no inquiries—and both Saurel and the Master Forger assured me they would be the first to know if it had.

Indian Creek Island was only a fifteen-minute car ride to the back clinic. And there was no was shortage of cars; the Duchess had seen to that—shipping down a brand-new Mercedes for me and a Range Rover for herself. Gwynne had come to Miami too, to look after my needs, and she also needed a car. So I bought her a new Lexus, from a local Miami car dealer.

Of course, Rocco had to come too. He was like a part of the family, wasn’t he? And Rocco alsoneeded a car, so Richard Bronson, one of the owners of Biltmore, saved me the headache of buying yet another one and loaned me his red convertible Ferrari for the month. So now everyone was covered.

With lots of cars to choose from, my decision to rent a sixty-foot motor yacht to get myself back and forth to the clinic became ridiculous. It was $20,000 per week for four smelly diesel engines, a well-appointed cabin I would never set foot in, and a flybridge without a canopy, which resulted in a third-degree sunburn on my shoulders and neck. The boat came complete with an old white-haired captain, who shuttled me back and forth to the clinic at an average cruising speed of five knots.

At this particular moment we were on the Intracoastal Waterway, cruising north on our way back to Indian Creek Island from the clinic. It was a Saturday, a little before noon, and we’d been chugging along for almost an hour now. I was sitting atop the flybridge with Dollar Time’s Chief Operating Officer, Gary Deluca, who bore a striking resemblance to President Grover Cleveland. Gary was bald, broad, grim-faced, square-jawed, and extremely hairy, especially on his torso. Right now we both had our shirts off and were basking in the sun. I had been sober for almost a month, which was a miracle unto itself.

Early this morning Deluca had accompanied me on my morning boat ride down to the clinic. It was a way for him to get some uninterrupted face time, and our conversation had quickly turned into a mutual bitching session over Dollar Time, whose future, we agreed, was hopeless.

But none of Dollar Time’s woes were of Deluca’s making. He had come after the fact—part of a workout team—and over the last six months he’d proven himself to be a first-class operations guy. I had already convinced him to move up to New York and become Chief Operating Officer of Steve Madden Shoes, which was in desperate need of someone with his operational expertise.

We had discussed all that earlier this morning, on the trip south. Now, on the trip north, we were discussing something I found infinitely more troubling, namely, his thoughts on Gary Kaminsky, Dollar Time’s CFO—the same CFO who’d introduced me to Jean Jacques Saurel and the Master Forger almost a year ago.

“Anyway,” Deluca was saying, from behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses, “there’s something strange about him that I can’t put my finger on. It’s like he’s got a different agenda that has nothing to do with Dollar Time. Like the place is a front for him. I mean, a guy his age should be flipping out over the company going down the tubes, yet he couldn’t seem to care less. He spends half his day trying to explain to me how we could divert our profits to Switzerland—which makes me wanna rip his fucking toupee off, considering we don’t have any profits to divert.” Gary shrugged. “Anyway, sooner or later I’ll figure out what that bastard’s up to.”

I nodded slowly, realizing that my initial instincts about Kaminsky had been right on target. The Wolf had been very shrewd not to allow that toupeed bastard to worm his way into my overseas dealings. Still, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Kaminsky hadn’t smelled a rat, so I figured I’d launch a trial balloon in Deluca’s direction. “I definitely agree with you. He’s totally obsessed with the whole Swiss-banking thing. In fact, he actually pitched it to me.” I paused, as if to search my memory. “Maybe a year ago, I think. Anyway, I went over there with him to check it out, but it seemed like more trouble than it was worth, so I took a pass. He ever mention anything to you?”

“No, but I know he’s still got a bunch of clients over there. He’s pretty tight-lipped about it, although he’s on the phone to Switzerland all day long. I always make it a point to check the phone bill, and I’m telling you, he must make half a dozen overseas calls a day.” Deluca shook his head gravely. “Whatever he’s doing, it better be on the up and up—because if it’s not, and his phone is tapped, he’s gonna find himself in some deep shit.”

I turned the corners of my mouth down and shrugged, as if to say, “Well, that’s his problem, not mine!” But the truth was that if he were in constant contact with Saurel and the Master Forger, I would find it troubling. I said casually, “Just for curiosity’s sake, why don’t you pull the phone records and see if he keeps calling the same numbers over and over again. If he is, make some blind phone calls and see who he’s speaking to. I’d be curious to find out, okay?”

“No problem. As soon we get back to the house I’ll jump in the car and take a quick ride over to the office.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; the phone records will still be there on Monday.” I smiled to reinforce my lack of concern. “Anyway, Elliot Lavigne should be at my house by now, and I really want you to meet him. He’ll be a huge help to you in restructuring Steve Madden’s operations.”

“Isn’t he kind of wacky?” asked Deluca.

“Kind of? The guy’s a complete fucking loon, Gary! But he happens to be one of the sharpest guys in the apparel industry—maybe thesharpest guy. You just gotta catch him at the right time—when he’s not slurring, snorting, tripping, or paying a hooker ten grand to squat over a glass table and take a shit over him while he’s jerking off.”

I’d first laid eyes on Elliot Lavigne four years ago, while I was vacationing in the Bahamas with Kenny Greene. I was lying by the pool at the Crystal Palace Hotel and Casino when Kenny came running up to me. I remember him screaming something like: “Hurry up! You gotta go into the casino right now and check this guy out! He’s up over a million dollars, and he’s not much older than you.”

In spite of being skeptical over Kenny’s version of things, I popped out of my lounge chair and headed for the casino. On the way, I asked, “What’s the guy do for a living?”

“I asked one of the casino people,” replied the Blockhead, whose use of the English language didn’t include words like dealer, pit boss,or croupier,“and they said he’s the president of some big Garment Center company.”

Two minutes later I was staring at this young Garmento, in a state of utter disbelief. In retrospect, it’s hard to say what bowled me over more: the sight of dashing young Elliot—who was not only betting $10,000 a hand but had the whole blackjack table to himself and was playing all seven hands at once, which is to say he was risking $70,000 on every deal—or the sight of his wife, Ellen, who appeared to be no more than thirty-five yet had already acquired a look that I had never seen before, namely, the look of the supremely rich and the supremely starved.

I was blown away. So I stared at these two anomalies for a good fifteen minutes. They seemed like an awkward couple. He was on the short side, very good-looking, with bushy, shoulder-length brown hair and a sense of style that was so fabulous he could walk around in a diaper and bow tie and you would swear it was the latest thing.

She, on the other hand, was short and had a thin face, thin nose, collapsed cheeks, bleached-blond hair, tan leathery skin, eyes that were too close together, and a body that was emaciated to near perfection. I figured she must have one of the world’s great personalities—a loving, supportive wife of the highest order. After all, why else would this handsome young guy who gambled with the poise and panache of 007 be attracted to her?

I was slightly off the mark.

The next day Elliot and I happened to meet by the pool. We moved right past the normal pleasantries and plunged into what each of us did for a living, how much we were making, and how we’d arrived at this point in our lives.

Elliot, as it turned out, was the President of Perry Ellis, one of the Garment District’s premier menswear companies. He didn’t actually own the company; it was a division of Salant, a public company that traded on the New York Stock Exchange. So, in essence, Elliot was a salaried employee. When he told me his salary I nearly fell off my lounge chair: It was only $1 million a year, plus a small bonus of a few hundred grand, based on profitability. It was a paltry sum, in my book—especially with his penchant for high-stakes gambling. In point of fact, he seemed to be gambling two years’ salary each time he sat down at the blackjack table! I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or contemptuous. I chose impressed.

Yet, he had hinted at an additional source of income with Perry Ellis—a perk, so to speak, associated with the manufacturing of dress shirts, which was being done overseas, in the Orient. And while he hadn’t gotten specific, I quickly read between the lines: He was skimming cash from the factories. Still, even if he were skimming $3 or $4 million a year, it was only a fraction of what I was making.

Before departing, we exchanged phone numbers and promised that we would hook up back in the States. The subject of drugs never came up.